


holy waters

by tagteamme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (Ish) - Freeform, A step above canon typical violence, Demons, Extreme Thirst, Face-Fucking, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Medieval Fantasy, Mentions of Other Voltron Paladins, Rough Sex, Shiro's nasty: the author's saga continues, Size Kink, Some Plot, Succubi & Incubi, author realized they accidentally put in a teeny bit of plot and now must resolve, ish, let's be real here, lol, ripperoni, tagged just incase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-12 09:37:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16870564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tagteamme/pseuds/tagteamme
Summary: He's a thing made to fight, but violence can't feed him. Keith collapses outside a camp on the hunt for someone dangerous who can.It comes to no surprise that this is where Keith’s path comes to an end, in dark woods that curl around him, unfamiliar and menacing. The moon and the summer stars have long been hidden by the thick forest canopy. This is not how Keith wanted to die— but this is not how he was meant to live, either.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know how every author has one gratuitous trashy au that they feel no shame for and finally decide to write out in one full swoop when they suddenly have a bunch of free time? I know all my fics may seem like it, but this is it. This is the one. Say hello to the world, my precious little trash baby.
> 
> It'd be remiss not to mention that this was inspired very loosely by [ when the ice melts in the snow (that's when you'll love me)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770939/chapters/20105086), an extremely excellent YOI fic that planted the idea of incubuses collecting energy for their entire clan in my head and has not let me rest since.

 

It comes to no surprise that this is where Keith’s path comes to an end, in dark woods that curl around him, unfamiliar and menacing. The moon and the summer stars have long been hidden by the thick forest canopy. This is not how Keith wanted to die— but this is not how he was meant to live, either.

His horse nickers softly, and Keith listlessly pats the side of her neck. It takes a lot more energy out of him than he expected and he feels himself slumping forward. The smell of burning wood drifts closer, piercing through the cool night sky. It makes the hair on his skin prickle; Keith’s trained to assume everything he approaches is hostile. It works against what he is now, what he’s become, works against the inviting nature he’s supposed to have.

Orange flickers in the distance, drifting into the air. The fire itself is obscured partially by two large tents, and illuminates another one behind it. Keith can hear the voice of a few men singing along, and the sound pierces through his eardrums in a grating way. His entire body shudders.

It’s been too long since he’s fed. Living off scraps that he siphons from the kinder members of his clan has not been a sustainable way to live. Keith coughs, retches, sees coloured spots in his vision. His horse snorts, and he gently nudges her side with his heels. She breaks into a slow trot towards the fire.

It comes as no surprise when he approaches the camp and men are immediately shouting. They’re human, from the looks of it, and humans don’t take kindly to seeing things like Keith when they don’t have their glamour on. Keith’s too tired to disguise his purple skin and yellow eyes, too tired to retract sharpened fangs. He should have, for all intents and purposes, and should have worn something better than dark leathers and worn clothes. But the body’s still foreign to him, even after two years— if he saw himself, he too would run away.

Someone yells out “Halt!” and commands Keith to dismount. He happily does so, sliding off and letting go of the reins.

“Go,” he tries to tell his horse. She’s an intelligent thing that knows her way back. She snorts, tries to nudge Keith and he tries to smack her neck again to get her to go. She can go back to his clan, a sign of what happened to Keith.

“You need to go,” he whispers to her, and she peers at him through her black forelock. “Go.”

To emphasize his point, Keith pushes back and steps away from her. The man from before barks something more at Keith as he approaches, but he’s so dizzy he can’t even here. He steps forward, feels his knees buckle, and registers them hitting the soft forest ground before he passes out.

 

* * *

 

No one from his clan will look for him. They are not his family anyways. Not by blood, not by choice. They're a means to an end, just like he was for them until they realized that Keith wasn't capable of pulling his weight the way they needed him to, nor was he planning to be.

Keith dreams of the oracle as soon as his head hits the dirt floor of the woods. He dreams of the oracle covered in soaking white robes, emerging from a lake of fire screeching names at all the members of the clan as they converged on coarse dark sand. Smoke rises high into the sky, and Keith dreams of the oracle screeching a name over and over in his direction.

 _Find him or starve_ , they had commanded Keith, smelling of burnt wood and meat.

Some did not receive names. Keith thinks he received his so that the clan could be rid of him once and for all. His head rings; he’s still on the forest floor as men rush over. Since he has been turned, he has had less than a handful of full meals. No one knows how he’s lasted as long as he has. It might be because he is human, but he feels more like a shell.

The wick on his candle is coming close to its end. He can feel it. He had made a half-hearted effort to find the owner of the name - the _title_ \- he had been given, but had gotten too worn near the end of his journey to know if he had headed in the right direction. And if this camp is where he needs to be, dread for his own life still picks at his gut.

If, through a haze of starvation, Keith has somehow still ended up in the lap of his target, it might not be for the greater good. A human who has earned his moniker on the battlefield countless times might not spare Keith, and in this state, Keith does not know if he’d be able to fight him either.

 _Find him or starve_ —

 

* * *

 

  
It passes in colours and muted sounds. Through a haze, Keith thinks that this is what happens as he’s captured;

Rough hands pull him to his feet, and eyes peer at him from behind a helmet. Someone yells something to someone else.

And then Keith’s man-handled past the fire and the heat licks at him lightly, beckons him to the warmth. But he’s being guided somewhere else.

A lamp is lit as he’s shoved into a small tent. They let go, he sways, he drops to his knees again, unable to do anything. His eyes are open but he barely registers what’s happening; there’s a thin layer of sweat starting to coat him from the exertion of being alive. He sees his reflection in the chestplate of someone leaning over him. His face is sallow, he thinks. It’s been too long since he’s seen himself in a reflection, and it shocks him. He blacks out again.

He comes to again with chains around his wrists and a headache that drums a vicious pattern within his skull. It’s cruel in the pain it delivers, and Keith’s eyes water. Someone presses something to cold to his lips, and Keith tries to shut them. Whoever is trying to feed him is strong and pries apart his mouth.

Whatever it is slides sweet like nectar and cold down his throat and—

The vice around Keith’s lungs ease up. He gasps, eyes widening as he sharply inhales and the colours around him snap into place. He sees two men kneeling in front of him, looking equal parts concerned and suspicious. He sees sandy hair and a scar on the cheek on one, big brown eyes and a yellow band around his coif on another.

“Do we keep him?” The sandy haired one asks, and Keith tries to say something. But exertion catches up to him, not from the past days, but from the past weeks and months and the two years he’s existed as this creature and before he can help it, his eyes are closing and he’s falling down into darkness.

But this time instead of unconsciousness, it is simply sleep.

Being taken as a prisoner when he has very little energy left in his reserves leaves him with very little options. Whatever they’ve given him is enough to keep his heart beating and his blood flowing and his lungs breathing but Keith can’t exert himself much beyond that. The two men return again, pour the cool liquid down his throat, and talk about showing him to their lord. Keith can't see the insignia he needs to see on any of their clothes; his vision might be swimming too much for it.

It’s hard to tell the passage of time. Keith feels detached from his body and thinks that he’s been there long enough for the night to start to ebb away. There’s a bright lamp that illuminates the tent from the inside, one that the two men bring close when they want to get a proper look at Keith **.**

They ask him his name. Keith pretends he’s too weak to speak to them, and they believe it, pouring down more of the medicine. It’s a blessed gift, but it cannot undo the type of starvation and exhaustion Keith has put his body through.

Demons like Keith feed on who they hunger for. But Keith, having been turned by a vicious witch instead of being born, rarely hungers despite starving. It’s a hard fight that his body has with his mind, and he’s often caught as the victim in between, unable to quell it long enough to be able to lure someone in to feed.

This is his last chance. Was supposed to be his last chance. He’s had many of those, but this one feels like it carries the most finality.

None of them have done anything aside from tip his head to see if he was awake and breathing, but they continue talking about presenting him to their lord. From what Keith hears, their commander is due in the morning. That, he supposes, is how he will tell time.

 

* * *

 

Dawn breaks. The fire of the lamp is extinguished as sun starts to bleed through the canvas of the tent. They don’t bring him the cool nectar again; he gets fed a roll of bread instead. Keith guesses that means they’re going to bring him out for display soon.

He’s got a little more control over himself. His head doesn’t feel like it’s about to split open and while he’s still viewing the world around him like he’s underwater, he can make out shapes now instead of just colours. He licks his lips after the bread roll and they give him water, seemingly undeterred by a demon without a glamour.

Keith is seated and upright, leaning against rough barley sacks. They’ve long taken off his leathers, and coarse frayed strings poke through his shirt. He welcomes the sensation, welcomes anything that reminds him he can still feel.

“Can you speak?” The one with the scar asks, and Keith thinks about not giving an answer but he coughs before he can control himself. It’s dry and it cracks his throat in a painful way and immediately, a wooden cup is pressed to his lips. The water is lukewarm and soothing and coaxes Keith into giving a short answer.

“Yes,” Keith replies, eyes darting between the two men. They look like they’re waiting for more but he isn’t planning to be any more forthcoming. He doesn’t think they’re going to kill him. Not at the moment anyways. He wonders he can convince them to give him more of the nectar, enough that he can slip away when they’re gone.

“Your name,” the one with the yellow band prods Keith, but there’s no real intention behind it. Keith presses his lips together, unwilling to speak. He coughs painfully again and this time, there is no water.

“Your name,” Yellow Band repeats. “It will be better if you give it to us now instead of it having to be forced from you late **r.”**

The man’s tone is benign, but the threatening undercurrent is evident. Another cough racks Keith and this time it rolls against his sternum and claws out the inside of his throat. He thinks of the water as he hacks and the men watch. He retches with the force, but nothing comes out.

“Keith,” he rasps, trying to gasp for air before he coughs again. Yellow Band cups Keith’s jaw and tilts it back and Keith feels like he’s choking. His eyes start to water something terrible as he continues to cough and then—

Cold metal is pressed to his lips and the sweet nectar slides down his throat again. It’s barely a few drops before the flask is taken away, but it’s enough for Keith to stop sounding wretched. The hands stay around his jaw as he swallows and the man with the scar says something low to his companion.

“We need to stop,” Keith barely makes out the man saying. “We should probably wait for him. We can’t just freely give this away.”

“He’s dying,” Yellow Band says. He releases Keith, and Keith sways but doesn’t flop down onto his side. He has that much energy. “He hasn’t eaten in a while.”

“We fed him,” the scarred man replies, but the other man shakes his head.

“That’s not what he needs,” he says grimly, looking at Keith. Keith can see clearer now, can make out the thick eyebrows and eyes that wouldn’t look out of place on a doe. It’s an oddly friendly face; so is the one of his companion. It’s unsettling for Keith.

“You’re a different kind of demon. You don’t feed normal, do you?” the man asks, and Keith stares back at him.

“No,” he says, and in an out of place moment, has a strong urge to tell them how exactly he eats. Maybe then they’ll release him, let him roam free into the nearest village and feed. But he bites back on it, because the two of them give him a look that’s more knowing than he’s comfortable with.

They don’t ask him any more questions. There’s enough light around the canvas tent to tell him they’ve progressed well into the morning, but there is still no sign of their leader and no one else is brought in to see Keith. He gets another wooden cup of water before they leave him be.  

 

* * *

 

Around what he thinks is midday, Keith is visited by the two men again. He’s been lying listless, trying to breathe and recuperate and get enough of his strength back from the journey so that he can break for it at first opportunity. There are metal cuffs around his hands and ankles, both long enough for him to move them a little when he has the energy.

When the men return, they take off the cuffs and re-shackle him with new ones that have no chains. They stick together instead, and he feels like a trussed pig.

“I’m not a threat,” Keith says as one of them tightens the vise around his ankles. They both exchange a glance and a raised eyebrow between them, and tighten the shackles further.

“We know,” comes the reply in unison. And then he’s left alone in the tent.

He wasn’t moving much before, but this further lack of mobility unnerves Keith. He had been existing like a sickly stray cat they found for the past few hours; he was a prisoner, no doubt, but it hadn’t been affirmed so well until now.

There’s a shadow of a post across his tent. Keith watches the shadow move with the sun. The effect of the nectar they’ve been giving him is still there in him, weak but present. Keith’s never quite tasted anything like that before; when he feeds second-hand, when he cracks open the vials some friendly demon has snuck him, it tastes like acid and iron and bitter gourd and the taste lasts for days. The sweet honey-like substance doesn’t have as strong an effect, but Keith’s never had something else work like this for him.

Now that his head doesn’t feel like it’s about to crack open, Keith tries to retrace his steps to the camp in his mind. He cannot parse whether or not he is at the right camp; the information he had gotten had been second-hand. Whatever witch the clan pulled from the lake had made it clear that Keith couldn’t return till he fed from that specific name. As he lays bound and forgotten in a tent, he’s sure now that this was all an elaborate way to get rid of him.

It’s fine though. Keith will retrace his steps, break away at the first given opportunity, or find one. He’ll be as compliant as they need him to be up until then. If their commander is brutal, he’ll still find a way out. He always does. And Keith will eventually find a source of food. He’s starved enough that he thinks he’ll be able to put more heart into his hunt.

Time passes again, but not as much as before. An hour at most, and Keith can see some shadows milling around the tent. On the list of priorities, he has no illusions about how low he lies. Finally, as Keith’s about to doze off again, having counted the mended tears and burn marks of the tent he’s been shoved in and the rivets that hold it up, the hanging entrance of the canvas is peeled back.

The two men who have been looking over him enter first. They take a moment to arrange Keith onto his knees like a proper prisoner before they rush back across the tent. They seem more rigid and formal and stand off to each side of the entrance. There’s a rumbling voice on the other end that Keith can barely make out; he’s been hearing the voices of the camp all throughout, and they’ve become indistinguishable for him. The men part the entrance, and in steps the man who Keith assumes is their commander.

The man is tall and broad, imposing from the moment he enters the tent. Keith finds himself straightening his back and looking up at the daunting figure as he crosses the floor towards Keith. Black fur is slung over dark leather armour, standing in stark contrast to the shocking white of his hair. Keith’s captors flank the man and his boots are loud as he approaches, the soft sound of chain clinking and hard crunch of his footsteps echoing through the tent.

He comes to a halt close enough that Keith has to tilt his head almost all the way back to try and get a look at him. His vision is still misted, but Keith can make out the man’s features, make out a thick mark across the bridge of the man’s nose. From the ground, he looks menacing in a way that Keith can’t place. The black and gold hilt of the sword slung on his hip gleams in the light filtering through the canvas, and Keith takes a shallow inhale.

“Where did you find him?” There’s a rough, guttural edge to his voice as he directs the question the other two and Keith knows in an instant that this man is not fully human, much in the way that Keith is not human.

“He collapsed on the edge of our camp,” Yellow Band supplies. “He’s not put up any fight. He looks like he’s dying, sire.”

“Creatures like him tend to,” the man replies, looking down at Keith. He’s silent for a moment and— “You look like a familiar thing.”

He says the words with no inflection, but it still catches Keith. He tries to keep his eyes locked with the man looming above him in a show of stubbornness. He squints at Keith, places an idle hand on the hilt of his sword. Keith takes the warning, and drops his eyes, watching his boots as one of them shifts.

It lifts, the tip of it tucking underneath Keith’s chin. It tilts his face up and Keith tries not to gulp with it. It’s then that he sees the mark on the underside of the man’s jaw. The shape of it is distinct enough that he doesn’t need a clear view to know what it is.

Keith has only seen it drawn on paper and on scraps of cloth. He’s been lucky that way, because the symbol of the Galra normally foretells an incredibly consuming type of danger. They brand it on everything and for prisoners that win fights, for prisoners that engage in brutality for their survival and the king’s entertainment, they burn it onto their skin. Only one has this particular mark, only one has managed to escape the Galra’s clutches and has become a _very_ large thorn in the kingdom’s side.

He knows now. Keith knows now that his aim was true and that he has found where he is supposed to be. That knowledge makes fear flicker within him as well, makes him feel a little more mortal, but does nothing to abate what starts to curl in Keith, foreign but old.

Keith recognizes it immediately. He tries to step down on it, but it starts to itch at him gently from within, despite the fact that he’s unable to properly make out the man’s features. It heats itself faintly in the depths of his gut as this man stares down at him, assessing and cold. The feeling tunnels, and Keith stares at the floor, stares at the worn metal plating on the man’s boots. It’s not strong enough to crawl through him yet, but it’s unmistakably there. Keith can feel the hunger.

“You said he gave a name?”

“Keith,” the sandy-haired companion supplies, and the boot immediately drops. Keith keeps his chin up and watches as the man seems to freeze for a moment, his eyes unwavering. And then something changes.

He gives Keith a look that’s _burning_. Keith feels it to his core, and it starts to clear some of the fog that had settled around him. Keith must be starving beyond what he comprehends, because when he feels the danger of the situation, the hunger grows. It’s contrary to the shreds of his human will to survive, but an integral part of what keeps a beast like him alive.

The man crouches down. Suddenly, Keith finds himself in direct contact with the man’s searching gaze and— Keith thinks he’s starving so much that he’s begun to hallucinate, regardless of whatever sweet liquid he had been fed. It takes Keith a long moment; the knitted skin of the scar almost stops recognition from punching through him. Almost.

But beyond the short white hair, beyond the scar on his skin and the way he holds himself, this man looks familiar in a way Keith knows in his bones. Keith lets out a shaking breath as he locks eyes with him. Something about the way the man’s eyes widen just the slightest amount makes Keith feel feverish beyond the hunger and the danger and the creeping want he had felt before.

Keith feels gloved fingers press under his chin, where the boot had been prior. Keith follows willingly, the pressure of the leather making his breath shorten. The feeling of danger is still there, rolling like a soft tide against him as he’s inspected, as a finger runs along the underside of his jaw down till the bob in his throat where his clan has tattooed him. It sits directly under another mark, one that Keith thinks the man must recognize as he exhales.

The man has a name. He releases Keith’s chin, and it’s the first thing to come tumbling out of his mouth.

“Shiro?” Keith whispers, almost delirious.

For an eternal moment, Keith thinks he has gotten it wrong. The man’s eyes don’t change, don’t widen or narrow in reaction. They stay there, rooted, Keith unable to move, and the man seemingly unwilling. And then he stands up with such force that his men scatter around him.

“Leave,” he commands loudly. “Both of you. Do not come in unless called, do not send anyone in unless requested.”

The two others nod slowly, still absorbing the situation before they straighten up. Before Yellow Band moves, the man grabs him by his shoulder and whispers something Keith can’t hear. Yellow Band nods, and drops a key into the man’s waiting palm.

They march out silently and without a question. Keith shifts his eyes to the ground till the footsteps have receded. It’s only when there’s silence does he look up slowly.

“Keith,” the man says, and Keith has no doubt that he knows him. His voice has dropped into something softer, more close, more private in a way that Keith had long resigned himself to never hearing again. “You _are_ familiar.”

“Shiro,” Keith breathes, and Shiro is crouching down in an instant, jamming the key into the lock of his ankle cuffs. They come undone with a rough clink, and the ones around Keith’s wrists are next to follow. Before Keith can register what’s happening, two large hands grab him by his shoulders and haul him up.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Shiro says, and Keith finds himself in a crushing embrace before he has a chance to respond. His wrists are still stiff from being in cuffs for so long and his entire body aches something incredibly fierce, but Keith finds it in him to wrap his arms around broad shoulders and weakly reciprocate. The fur is coarse under his fingers and Keith curls his fingers in the warmth and for the first time in so long, finally _feels_.

And then that feeling becomes incinerating. Keith feels his knees start to buckle and his weight start to drop in Shiro’s arms so he pushes off and lets go, letting himself collapse to the ground. It’s by the grace of Shiro catching him and lowering him down steadily that he doesn’t flatten out completely.

“You’re starving,” Shiro observes, and Keith thinks maybe that whatever blood he has left tries to faintly dust his cheeks. He feels exposed in the worst way like this, but something in him is singing at the thought of having found someone he thought had disappeared right before he had turned. Keith did not know that he was so malnourished that a simple touch could set him off completely.

Shiro raises a hand to cup Keith’s jaw, to tip up his chin again and then to press into the junction near his ear so that he can tilt his head. “Who turned you?”

“I—” Keith tries to speak, but the prolonged touch has the heat shooting through him in flames now. His body is imbalanced, has been imbalanced or a while, and finding his friend, finding a mark, the _touch_ —

Shiro pulls back to look at Keith and Keith shoots him a desperate look, even though he’s not sure what he wants to beg for. The headache has come back with full force, threatening to cleave his skull in half. Keith lets out a hiss at it and Shiro’s eyes sharpen as they look at him. He lets go of Keith completely, and Keith starts to see spots in his vision.

“Keith,” Shiro says his name, but Keith’s hearing is dimming. “Keith!”

Keith’s fading out and Shiro’s voice echoes through his brain. He can’t quantify what he’s feeling but it’s worse than he had felt when he had collapsed at the foot of the camp. It’s eating up at him faster, clawing at him desperately like it wants to drag him down. Keith tries to open his mouth to talk, tries to shape out Shiro’s name again but he‘s choked up with his throat on fire before he can even take a breath.

Something cold is shoved through his lips, hits his teeth painfully before it tilts. Keith feels the sweet nectar slide down his throat again and this time it flows, free and thick and blissfully cold against his throat. Keith swallows weakly and feels his throat open up again. He gasps against the mouth of the flask, and tries to chase it with his tongue when Shiro removes it. Shiro brings it back to his lips and pours another small amount for Keith that allows him to breathe so much better, allows the colours to snap back into place as he shudders with whatever energy it’s started to give him.

“Gentle,” Shiro says, and Keith nods frantically in an effort to get more.

This time when Shiro pours, he pours liberally.

It’s unrestrained and Keith feels a hand cup the back of his head while Shiro pours and pours and pours it down his throat. It becomes so good that his eyes start to water, and he finally brings a hand to circle around a thick wrist as if he could even think to hold Shiro in position in the state he’s in. Whatever is in the nectar courses through his blood, awakening his body as he takes increasingly larger gulps and feels small drops of wetness trickle down the corners of his mouth.

It’s only when there’s nothing left, till it stops pouring altogether, does Keith pull off for air. His chest heaves as his vision sharpens and his bones start to feel like they have more purpose. Whatever the liquid is sends energy coursing through Keith like no other and his chest expands from the within as he inhales deeply. His headache has all but vanished and while he still feels exhausted, he doesn’t feel like he’s going to burn into ash from the inside out.

There’s still a large hand cupping the back of his head, and Keith tries to gain his bearings. The tent looks a lot different, a lot smaller now.

“Keith,” Shiro’s voice again, laced with some concern.

“Shiro,” Keith replies and turns to properly look at him. Now that he’s more coherent, he can see the changes in his oldest friend’s face. It’s not just the scar and the hair. It’s the harder set to his jaw, the strange gold swirling through his iris like ink blots. It’s yellow that tinges the corner of his eyes, it’s the teeth that are as long and sharp as Keith’s. If not more.

Keith knows he should be the last to ask this question, looking the way he looks. Being in the state that he is. Knowing that he’s in proximity of a man who has gained notoriety for having a blood-thirst that rivals that of his captors.

Yet it has been so long since he has seen anyone from his old life, let alone someone who was such a significant part of it.

The question wants to stumble out unbidden, unable to remain locked inside Keith. It’ll singe him if he doesn’t ask it and—

Shiro shifts closer, leaning in to peer at Keith’s neck. He’s looking at the tattoo, Keith knows. He can feel warm breath gust over the mark as Shiro asks, “What happened to you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the new tag for graphic violence! It's not too graphic but I thought I'd tag anyways! Skip to the author's notes at the end to figure out where you might want to start skimming if you can't stomach it.
> 
> Also, no Season 8 elements in this fic. Just some that I wish were there. hahahahahahhahahhahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahaha

Keith gives it in pieces to Shiro. He takes his question as it is, and tells him that he had gotten turned two years ago while out on patrol. His regiment had been wiped out. A witch turned him into a demon as a warning. He had returned to a castle that didn’t want him. The mark on Keith’s neck is of a clan that does, even if barely.

He’s long stopped being ashamed of who he is. The fact is irreversible and Keith finds it a waste of time to dwell on it.  Yet he still finds it strange, voicing out loud what he is to his childhood friend. He doesn’t tell Shiro of the years beforehand, of the liminal space he was in between the years Shiro had disappeared and he had been cast out. Shiro doesn’t ask for more than Keith gives him, not beyond the initial question.

Keith wants to ask Shiro what happened. Wants to know why Shiro rode into the early dawn for a hunt without Keith and vanished into thin air. Wants to know what Shiro is now, because he holds himself different now. Shiro had been a man of gold when Keith had known him, the youngest knight in the cavalry that had been a kind smile and a warm heart in bulky armour. His hair had been jet black, his eyes a soft brown; he had been human.

The Shiro that sits in front of him is different. The white hair and scar and gold-flecked eyes helps Keith bridge the man he knew with the man he has heard about. The oracle had spit out the name of a man that had a violent reputation; tales about him shroud him in a cloak of darkness so vivid that Keith grown incredibly uneasy he had first heard them.

It had been stories of a man who was so vicious on the battlefield that had confirmed to Keith that he was indeed being sent to his death. Shiro holds himself like a man deserving of the reputation, his previous discipline having grown into a commanding nature that has a rope of fire wrapped around it. Even crouching down so that he can see eye to eye with Keith, even as he speaks with a voice tinged with concern, his presence is so dominating that it’s suffocating. Keith leaves this out when he speaks.

“There’s a very specific way for me to feed,” Keith says after he tells him about his clan, about how he was travelling in search of food, and Shiro nods. He knows; of course he does. Keith hasn’t told him who his mark was, and thinks it’ll be fine if Shiro never finds out.

“How did they let you go hungry for so long?” Shiro murmurs, and Keith can see his hand twitch from where he has it draped over a knee. Shiro had let go once he had seen that Keith had fully returned to his senses, and hasn’t touched Keith since. “I thought the purpose of these clans were to take care of each other.”

It’s a shame because Keith hasn’t felt desire this strong claw at him ever. Part of him knows why, but most of him is still trying to adjust and come to terms with the situation he has found himself in. The knight that had had let him be his squire, even though he had been strongly advised against taking a short-tempered orphaned teenager under his wing, has now become something more feared by everyone than beloved. He’s shifted enough men across seizing a considerable amount of land to earn the title of being a warlord, one that rests easy under the name _King of Champions_.

“It’s hard for everyone to feed,” Keith says to him, and something dark crosses Shiro’s face. Keith recognizes it from the time he caught another knight picking on Keith and kicking him around a practice field like a particularly amusing toy. Keith raises a hand in a placating manner, as silly as the gesture is in the face of someone like Shiro.

“There were some who would siphon off some of what they collected onto me,” Keith explains, but Shiro doesn’t relax. “It’s always been hard for me to collect, no matter what anyone does. I’m made for fighting. Not… not—”

It’s hard to get the words out with the way that Shiro is looking at him. Keith's good at wielding a sword but he isn't good at getting people into bed and draining their life force till he's full and they're sated and happy and none the wiser. There’s no way he can tell Shiro the real reason it was his camp that Keith had ended up passing out in front of.

And therein lies another problem.

Shiro gets up, and Keith watches him rise. He's got some form of magic in him that makes him not quite human; of that, Keith is sure. But if he does have any humanity left, if Keith fed on him, if by some stroke of extremely rare luck Keith managed to _bed_ Shiro, then Shiro would have his own life drained from him. It wouldn't be enough to kill him, but it would be enough to shorten his lifespan by a few years. Years he may not have if he lives on the battlefield, a small and bitter and old part of Keith thinks, but Keith doesn't want to take away something so vital to Shiro.

“Stay in my tent,” Shiro tells Keith. “Get some rest. I'll introduce you to the rest of the camp after you've gotten a moment to properly rest.”

For a brief, foolish moment, Keith thinks that Shiro is going to take him there himself. That he is going to pull Keith by the hand across the camp and gently usher him into the tent. It's an idiotic thought that comes unbidden, and gets squashed as Shiro barks for the two captors from before to take Keith to his tent and set up a bed roll for him.

“I'll see you at supper” Shiro says and leaves before Keith has a chance to ask any of his own questions. It's fine— Keith doesn't know if he would have been able to get any of them out anyways.

 

* * *

 

 

He sleeps for a long time, and misses the dinner.

Keith had been herded into Shiro's tent, a large thing with a bed and a chest and a jagged tree trunk appropriated into a table. It sits in the centre of a ring of tents, all in the thickets enough away from the river and road to go undetected. Two suits of armour hang from posts, and a row of polished swords line one wall of the tent. They've made their home here for a month and a half, and the tent looks well broken in. Grey and black furs spill over the bed and shine in the light of the lamps.

They’ve requisitioned a sleeping roll and laid it out at the opposite end of the tent. It’s worn but more plush than anything Keith’s slept on in a while, and he passes out as soon as he lies down. He doesn’t dream, but he doesn’t ache either, the cold sweet liquid he had been fed swirling around in his body and keeping his blood flowing.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, and for a moment, he forgets where he is. He flails in his roll, in the dark for a moment, feeling clarity in his brain that he hasn’t felt in a long time, and there’s a soft _shhk_ sound in the distance. Keith sits up almost immediately, and grasps for a weapon that isn’t there. Belatedly, he remembers that he’s been stripped of them all.

A soft orange glow fills the tent and catches Keith’s attention. He turns and sees Shiro, sitting up in his bed and looking towards Keith. He’s got a lamp in his hand, and the fire illuminates a concerned expression and it comes rushing back to Keith. Keith is never one to dwell but not for the first time, he feels an odd sort of elation at seeing an old friend again. Keith feels his shoulders slump as he returns to the current situation, and closes his eyes. He exhales quietly, and speaks before Shiro can ask him anything.

“Sorry,” he says towards Shiro. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Are you okay?” Shiro asks. Keith nods, watches as Shiro starts to shift his blanket off. His sleep shirt is dark and loose around him, and Keith can see scars peeking through in the dull lamplight.

“I forgot where I was for a moment,” Keith says and Shiro pauses. “I got so used to being hungry it surprised me when I woke up and I wasn’t.”

It’s not a complete truth, but it’s not a complete lie. Whatever Shiro given him has been akin to eating sweetmeats as a meal; it isn’t sufficient but it fills him enough that he has some sort of empty energy. Keith wonders whether it’s worth voicing out loud, but Shiro beats him to speaking.

“It’s quintessence,” Shiro says unsolicited, and Keith makes a questioning noise. “You should know what we were feeding you. It’s quintessence.”

“I think the name sounds familiar,” Keith replies, and Shiro nods.

“It’s a speciality of the Galra Empire,” Shiro explains. “The druids make it in secret. Or they like to think they do. I stole a large quantity of it from them early on after I escaped.”

“Is it some kind of cure-all?” Keith asks, and Shiro pauses for a moment before he shrugs.

“Sort of,” he says. “It gives creatures the ability to keep going long after they shouldn’t. And it feeds people like you even if it’s not what you need. I always bring it to skirmishes and battles, just to keep my people going.”

Keith thinks he’s heard whisperings of it before. To be fair, as part of a travelling clan, he’s heard whisperings of so many different things that he’s stopped paying attention to what may or may not be true. His mind flashes back to the way Hunk and Matt were reserved about feeding him the liquid and wonders how limited the supply of quintessence they have is. Shiro’s offered it to him freely but Keith doesn’t want to ask how much is left.

Silence passes through them for a moment, and Keith watches the flickers of the flame dance across the tent. It catches the armour that stands near the foot of Shiro’s bed and makes it glint menacingly. Everything in this tent intimidates, yet Keith feels wrapped up in it. Shiro is far and close at the same time and Keith wonders that if he had taken to being the type of demon he is more easily, he would have no problem in crawling towards Shiro's bed and climbing in.

“You didn’t ask me what happened to me,” Shiro says finally, and it doesn’t sound hurt or accusatory. It’s even, as if he’s simply stating a fact.

“I know what you’ve done,” Keith replies earnestly, quietly. “Tales of your accomplishments are spread far.”

“But you didn’t ask what happened to me,” Shiro cuts in, voice still unaffected.

Keith takes a moment to _really_ look at Shiro now and wonders if this is an opening. He wonders if this is something he should be taking, grabbing with both hands. ”Would you tell me if I did?”

Before, Shiro would. There wasn’t much they kept hidden between them, but Keith thinks about the one thing he _had_  hid from Shiro and how this might be one of the things that Shiro will keep from him. Shiro gives him one last look and blows out the lamp, engulfing them in darkness again.

Keith flops back down on his bedroll, stares up and exhales as he tries to will his body to relax.  It’s been years, and he’s not quite sure what he had expected. Shiro’s initial reaction had been warm, and he’s keeping Keith close by him. They’ve both changed too much to fall back into their old rhythm of gallant knight and love-sick squire; it’s by following a chance of fate that Keith has found him again, and he doesn’t know where to go from here.

In the stillness of the night, Keith can hear Shiro shift in his bed as he settles in again. Keith closes his eyes and rolls to his side, facing a wall so that he can try and lull himself back to sleep. Despite the haze in his head lifting, his body still feels heavy and lethargic, like he’s coming off an illness.

“You can ask me anything and I’ll tell you.”

The words come out clear and takes Keith by surprise. It’s not a hidden statement, not one he’s supposed to miss. Shiro has laid out an invitation for him. Suddenly, his tongue feels heavy.

“Okay,” Keith manages to say. “Thank you, sire.”

 

* * *

 

Proper introductions are given in the morning. Keith gets to meet the camp, gets to properly meet the two men that captured him, call-me-Hunk and call-me-Matt. They still do not return his weapons but they show him his horse, tied up and safe by a trough. She never left him and Keith’s almost mad at her but he can’t be, not when he approaches her and she jams her velvety nose against his neck.

He hadn’t stayed up all night and extracted Shiro’s entire history from him— Keith had let silence envelop them till he fell asleep again. He doesn’t know where he would start from. Instead, in the morning as he rose with Shiro, he had asked Shiro what he intended to do with Keith.

“Am I a prisoner?” Keith had said and Shiro had laughed and gave him an amused look. Keith never received an explanation, just an order to get ready for breakfast. He gets a quick introduction to everyone and a bowl of food, and then Shiro’s pulling him to a few logs turned makeshift seats. Keith can see a couple of people in the camp tittering as they watch, and wonders idly what it’s like being in a camp led by Shiro.

There aren’t many men and women in this camp; Shiro tells him that the rest of his people are campaigning five days northeast, establishing a strong hold. They’re here to pry a small town from the hands of a Galra regiment. It sounds like a small task for a man with a large reputation, but once Shiro secures it and the surrounding village, it’ll allow him to move in deeper and claim more land, drawing a whole new border.

“There’s a newly-ascended queen in the southern kingdom,” Shiro tells Keith and Keith shovels lukewarm gruel and berries into his mouth and nods. Keith’s heard of her too, heard she’s young and heard that it’s the Altean Kingdom that the King of Champions has pledged his loyalty to. Shiro tells him that they are only a few days away from when the Galra horde are supposed to reach the town; they’re not aware that Shiro is there, waiting, instead of being in the northeast with the majority of his army. Keith tells him he knows as much, and Shiro raises an eyebrow and gives him half a smile.

“You’re not a prisoner,” Shiro says, as Keith scrapes the bottom of his bowl. Regaining his strength has made him crave more mortal food, no matter how watered down and old it tastes. “You can leave anytime you want.”

Keith should. He should move on, should find the town that’s been spoken of and try his luck at a local tavern before the fight breaks out. Keith should feed and leave and then—

“I remember when you first became my squire,” Shiro says, and nudges Keith with his shoulder. “Always telling me that you were going to get knighted even faster than I did.”

 

“So that we could fight side by side,” Keith recites almost instantly, remembering the amount of pluck and gratitude that had gone behind those words. Shiro had sharpened Keith’s rough edges into something useful, turning him from a young pickpocket to a talented horseman. The guidance had lasted on after Shiro’s disappearance, and Keith had gotten knighted shortly after.

It surprises him, how gentle Shiro’s voice has gone, so much so that Keith feels its misplaced out of time. The request behind it is unspoken. Keith doesn’t know if he has the physical energy to fulfill it. He doesn’t know if the syrupy quintessence he’s been fed is enough to last him into a fight. Doesn’t know what kind of toll it’ll take on his body.

Keith looks at Shiro, swallows hard. What Keith _does_ know is that he was not made to lure men and women in the way that he now needs to. He knows he’s built to break and tame and destroy with his hands and not to soothe and caress. Fighting is his true calling, not crawling from bed to bed and looking for his next meal. If he’s even lucky enough for it to ever rear its head.

“Did you get knighted faster than I did?” Shiro asks quietly, when the two of them have not spoken for a while, and Keith nods.

“Only by eight days,” he says, and Shiro grins. In comes the nudge again, more playful this time like they’re two old friends again, from another place in another fragment of time. Keith thinks he might be lucky, and that Shiro might just consider them that. “I still haven’t gotten the chance to fight by your side.”

The words come out before Keith can think about them. But Shiro gives him a brilliant grin, puts his bowl aside, and shifts onto his feet. Keith follows and Shiro sticks out his hand. Keith grasps the forearm and knows from here, he cannot go back.  
  
  


* * *

  
 

As it turns out, there’s not much to do when waiting for an attack. Shiro takes a few of his men into an adjacent clearing that’s been roped off into a little paddock to run drills, and Keith trails behind him. Shiro tells Keith he should wait another day before he throws himself into any sort of physical activity, and Keith shrugs and goes along with it. He’s still a sharp fighter and he wants to save the hollow energy he’s got for whatever task lays ahead of them. Keith’s not sure about what will happen after he expends it, but he tries not to think about it as he leans against a wooden post and watches Shiro bark out command after command.

 

Sunlight filters through the forest canopy, shining down on the group. It’s a total of eight people and Keith wonders if this is really enough to save a town. But he watches Shiro stand, leather-clad hands folded over the hilt of a sword that’s driven into the ground, watches Shiro asses and give orders in a deep voice filled with gravel, and has no doubt that it is.

Even dressed in a simple hauberk and breeches, Shiro holds himself with an intimidating presence. He stalks up and down his small rows of soldiers like he’s commanding a group of a hundred, and Keith is hypnotized by it. This is where Shiro had been heading, even before he had vanished. He always held attention wherever he went, and though they’re in a tiny camp in the middle of the woods, Keith has no doubt that this man has controlled legions across the land.

Training breaks off into individual sparring sessions, and Keith watches in fascination as the one he’s supposed to call Matt throws a light-hearted challenge out at Shiro. Shiro insults him back with a grin and for a moment, Keith feels like he’s back in the paddocks of the castle they had grown up in, eagerly watching Shiro spar with one of the other soldiers. It’s easy to forget a reputation filled with bloodlust when its holder is wearing a wide smile that glimmers in the sunlight.

It’s less easy to forget the way it feels to see Shiro draw swords with someone, even playfully. It had been half inspirational and half infatuating to watch him before; now, it’s simply mesmerizing. Matt’s quick on his feet and craftier than most, but he’s no match for the way Shiro tracks him down like prey. Shiro’s large on the field and by all means, as someone’s Keith’s size, Matt should be able to find the advantage in it. But Shiro’s quick and intelligent as well, and Matt’s repeatedly brought to his knees. It’s half in jest, but Keith sees the way controlled force ripples through Shiro, stopping right before it’s exerted, and it stirs something warm in his gut.

Keith would know how to move, he thinks. He’d be a little more agile, a little trickier in the way he would dance around Shiro. He watches Matt try to feint and attack and Shiro block it with ease, and thinks about how he’d pull his strike enough that he could aim the next one quick and sharp while Shiro is on the defense. Maybe Shiro would catch him again, but he’d last a lot longer than Matt does. Keith almost wants to rise up to the challenge but— he has to preserve his energy.

So he watches instead as someone else steps up just to be put down by Shiro. He tracks Shiro with his eyes and drinks in the sight, watches broad shoulders and sure arms move in the sun. It’s not hard for his mind to wander and to imagine being on the receiving end of each one of the blows.

The practice stretches out all day, fills up time, and stays on Keith’s mind even as they skewer a deer for dinner.

Later that night,  Keith stuffs his fist into his mouth, willing himself to stay quiet as he wraps a spit-slicked hand around himself. He’s never been loud to begin with, but he’s got a whole swathe of new feelings that he has never experienced before. Keith doesn’t know how much more time he’s going to have before Shiro is back in the tent. He’s gone to look over a large map by the fire with his men and plot course for where to move after. He had asked Keith to join, but Keith had begged off, unable to take it any longer.

The hunger has long made itself known. The quintessence he gets only keeps him mentally and physically sound; it can’t suppress the way Keith is consumed with the sheer amount of desire he feels upon seeing Shiro. He knows there’s no way to truly stop it other than the obvious, and if he thinks about it too hard, he’s going to spiral. Keith needs to release himself a little now so that he does not embarrass himself within the first two days of reuniting with Shiro.

Keith works himself to the memory of Shiro putting down one of his soldiers with ease and a grin towards Keith. He pulls at himself, thinks of being part of Shiro's regiment and getting showered with praise, thinks of Shiro’s white hair under the sunlight. Thinks about what’s under the bulky chain mail and leathers and shirt that Shiro wears, thinks of a powerful body belonging to a powerful man. Keith thinks not only feeding, but being fed by that powerful body and has to bite down on his knuckles to stop himself from letting out a pathetic sound. There’s strength and authority in the way that Shiro moves and Keith goes cross-eyed when his mind conjures up an image of Shiro moving like that against him.

He’s blessedly easy work; Keith comes to the thought of Shiro bringing Keith down to his knees with a sword but praising him in front of his men for being a worthy opponent. More dreams linger, ones where Shiro is naked under Keith and looking up at him with a crooked smile, skin warm and supple under Keith’s hands. Or ones where he runs rough palms over Keith, hard and heavy with the need he has for Keith. All of these, simply dreams.

The real Shiro comes in a while after Keith’s cleaned himself off and has calmed himself down. Keith’s long learned not to wear any emotions on his face but he still feels like some of the guilt trickles through.

Shiro gives him the same amused look he gave him earlier on in the day but nothing else, and Keith wonders if there is some way he can tell.

 

* * *

 

The second day goes by as uneventful as the first. Keith gets to stay in the camp and watch Shiro run drills and plot course. The quintessence has fully taken a hold of him now, and though it still isn’t as fulfilling as the energy he needs, it’s enough to make him feel like he’s functional in a good way. He spends a lot of time with his horse, rubbing circles into her neck and murmuring gratefully to her, thanking her for not abandoning him after all. Keith helps skin the dinner again and set it out for roast, and people in the camp still look at him with some tentativeness. Shiro has introduced him as a guest as an old friend though, so no one is hostile.

Shiro keeps busy, so Keith doesn’t get much of a chance to talk to him. When he does, Shiro gives him little bits of information about the members of the camp, more information about the woods around them. He doesn’t ask after Keith’s past any more than he has and Keith’s thankful. Shiro revels the group at dinner with a story about Keith getting into a fight with another squire, and Keith goes red around the ears while people laugh. It’s surprisingly easy.

In the night, Keith doesn’t take up Shiro’s offer to ask him anything. Shiro in turn does not prod him further, and instead asks Keith if he's comfortable where he sleeps. Keith says it's fine. Shiro doesn't ask anything further but in the morning, Keith wakes up with one of the furs from Shiro's bed draped over him and his bed roll. He realizes the quintessence has barely dissipated, and he has enough energy to wear his glamour without feeling a toll. Slipping into a more human form surprises both Shiro and the other members of the camp, but Keith thinks they stare less.

On the third day, Keith offers to hammer out the dents in pieces of armour and asks Hunk if he can sharpen some of the swords that hang in Shiro’s tent. Hunk eyes him warily for a moment and Keith can tell that he doesn’t quite trust Keith by the tentative way he says yes, even after Shiro gives Keith the go ahead. Hunk hands over all of Shiro’s swords but one, and Keith recognizes it from the hilt as the one Shiro had when Keith first was reunited with him.

He takes great care as he evens out chest plates and sharpens blades with the whetstone. He did it many times before when he squired for Shiro, had tried to get his hands on as many different jobs as possible from aiding a farrier to running errands for the apothecary just incase Shiro had tired of him. Keith works with a precision that’s never left him, making sure the edge of the swords are balanced just enough to strike metal armour without sending the force hurtling back through them.

Keith works all day, close to where the horses are. A few of Shiro’s soldiers see him, and out of curiosity, bring their own swords forward. Keith sharpens them too, cleans out legplates and evens out pauldrons. It keeps his hands busy but doesn’t take out much energy, and a few members of the camp start to look at him with a little more trust. Keith’s just eager to be the most useful he has felt in a while.

As dusk settles and the soldiers gather for dinner, Keith presents Shiro with the swords and the fixed armour right outside of the tent. He doesn’t feel shy about it, but he does feel cautious as he watches Shiro inspect his handiwork. Keith’s hands ache from the work he’s done all day, but it will be more than worth it if it earns Shiro’s satisfaction. It had been an incentive for Keith in the past, to earn a smile and a pat on the back and a compliment, and it’s a knee-jerk desire to want that again. The Shiro who stands in front of him does not look like he’ll pour out praise as easily and Keith adjusts his expectations accordingly. He’s good at adapting.

“You’re still good at this,” Shiro murmurs, holding his sword up to the light of one of the torches stuck in the ground.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Keith’s reply is instant before he remembers some sense of propriety. “Sire.”

“It never sounds like you respect when when you call me that,” Shiro says, but the corners of his mouth twitch up. “Some things really never change.”

Keith takes the compliment for what it is, and takes what he can get. Shiro tells him to go eat, and that he’ll join everyone shortly. Keith obeys, and over his shoulder he catches Shiro holding another sword up, looking lost in thought as he runs a gloved finger over the flat of the blade. Keith catches his eye, and Shiro looks at him with an expression that’s indiscernible. Keith thinks about it long into the night, but Shiro retreats to the tent at the same time as him so Keith has to hold down on any wandering thoughts.

He does not ask Shiro any questions this night either. Shiro gives him a pair of breeches and a shirt that Keith swims in, telling him he needs something clean for the night. The clothes are god-sent, allowing Keith to peel out of the worn and dirty outfit he’s been living in, and he sleeps a little easier.

The fourth day brings Shiro offering Keith to train with him and his men. Shame flares in Keith as he remembers how his thoughts had spiralled on the first night and how he barely controlled them on the second, but he nods and goes along with it. He’s given the lone sword he had ridden into camp with and a wooden shield that’s seen better days, and falls to the back of the group as they run through the exercises.

No one runs their mouth today, so there are no one-on-one matches. Keith doesn’t know whether to be thankful or not, doesn’t know what would happen if there were. The training is gruelling to be a part of, but it’s a necessity when they’re a smaller camp. It feels good to do something physical like this, and Keith revels in it as much as he can.

It’s an old rhythm that he hasn’t been a part of in a while, but he catches on easily. He pulls back on exerting himself, unsure if he’s going to be allowed to have any more of the quintessence and unwilling to expend too much energy. But it doesn’t take as great a toll on him as he had thought it would.  Not in a way that he can immediately tell. So Keith tries to enjoy himself as Shiro runs his soldiers into the ground.

He's exhausted by the end of the day, and his muscles hurt in ways they haven't for a long time. It's the best kind of pain though, one that Keith has missed feverishly since he got turned. He had found his clan when he had been lost and delirious with hunger, unable to quite figure out what he had become or recognize himself in any reflection. The clan had seen a discarded knight starving and stumbling through the edge of a forest, a knight that did not know why his skin had turned purple and his nails had turned long, a knight that did not know why no amount of hunting sated his hunger.

They had brought him back to health with siphoned energy, had told him what he had become. They told him that they could show him how to exist as the type of demon he had been turned into. Keith had not liked what he had found, but in exchange for acting as a bodyguard, the clan had let him stay and live off the siphoned energy.

It was a relationship that grew more strained when they had crossed borders into Altea and moved further inland, where his services were rarely needed, if ever. His value did not weigh as much as the burden it took to care for him, and they had started to push him towards finding more meals on his own.

When they said they were going to use magic to find Keith’s next target instead of leave him to his own devices, Keith thought they were preparing to get rid of him for good. Moreso when he heard the oracle spit out “ _King of the Champions_ ” as they hovered above a lake under the full moon, wind whipping their long white robes around them. Flames had licked across the surface of the water, and Keith had felt dread.

Now, he thinks, the oracle might have been more than just a witch contracted by the clan to get rid of him in a quiet way. It seems to be fate that he’s crossed paths with a feared warlord who has let him live within his camp because he remembers that he and Keith had been friends. It could have been worse in infinite more ways. Keith’s body might be in pain now, as they wind down the training, but it’s at least been put to use in a way that feels more natural to him. It feels nice to unfold under Shiro’s command, no matter how much part of him is cloying for more.

Near the end of the day, a giant cauldron of water is brought to the center of the camp and held over a simmering fire. Everyone is handed a rag to soak and wipe down grime with, and Keith's in the middle of peeling his shirt off when he feels a hand rest on his back, right between his shoulder blades. Keith turns and comes face to face with Shiro.

“We should talk,” Shiro says. “You can bathe in my tent.”

Keith can see some of the other members of the camp pause and try to pretend they aren’t eavesdropping. Shiro looks at him expectantly, so Keith throws the washcloth over his shoulder and picks up his discarded shirt. He trails behind Shiro towards the tent, tempted to lose his glamour just so he can press his ears back and listen to whatever murmur has started to ripple around the camp.

There’s a smaller bucket in Shiro’s tent, and Keith can faintly smell something rosehips in the warm water. It’s oddly luxurious in the middle of a battle camp but he supposes those are the luxuries Shiro can afford now. The tent’s alight with a warm orange glow from a few lamps, the canvas looking richer in the light of the flames.

“There’s a river that near the camp,” Shiro says, rounding the bucket with a cloth. “If this isn’t enough, we can go there in the morning tomorrow. It’s just easier for everyone this way.”

Keith stares into the water and sees his own translucent reflection look back. He can see the grime from the day on his face and the hollowness of his cheeks that speak to a man that still hasn’t gotten proper nourishment. He’s not sure why Shiro’s explaining himself, but he tracks with his eyes as Shiro stops on the opposite side of the bucket. He looks at Keith for a moment before he grabs the hem of his shirt, and pulls.

Shiro's torso is large, with muscles so sharply defined he looks like a statue. He's got scars abundant across his frame, some that look so violent that Keith can feel the sting of them as his eyes fall on them. Shiro seems even bigger this way, a solid mass in the presence of Keith. Keith's gaze get immediately drawn towards Shiro's right arm as he shifts to toss his shirt to the side, and learns why Shiro always wears gloves.

The limb is completely black up until his bicep; it's the colour of charred meat, but with the smoothness of intact skin. The fingers taper into sharp, animal-like claws. As the black fades, dark veins crawl up from his bicep towards his shoulder, fading out right before they reach his neck. It’s as muscular as Shiro’s other arm, but the limb is clearly not human. Shiro catches Keith looking and crooks an eyebrow as he tosses his shirt to the side.

“Do you want to ask what happened?” Shiro asks, and Keith does. Not just to his arm, but to him in general.

“Do you want to tell me?” Keith says instead, watching as Shiro drops his cloth in the bucket. He swirls it around, and the smell of rosehips grows stronger as he takes out the cloth and squeezes it. There’s silence for a moment, before there’s the light _smack_ of wet cloth hitting skin.

“That morning I had gone missing,” Shiro says, sliding the cloth down his left arm. “I was leaving for an early morning hunt to clear my head. I was deep in the woods and had gotten captured by a rogue bounty hunter, and they had traded me in to one of their lords for clemency.”

“I looked all over for you— ” Keith starts, and Shiro shakes his head, cutting Keith off before he can explain how exactly many nights he had spent trawling through the woods for his best friend.

“The Galra travel fast,” he says. “They’re hard to find unless you know where to look. By the time anyone would have known, I would have been long gone. It took less than a week for me to end up in their gladiator pit.”

“The gladiator pit?” Keith asks, and Shiro drops his cloth in the water again.

“You should wash,” Shiro says, tipping his chin to where Keith’s own rag hangs limply from his hand. Keith tries not to show any sort of annoyance as he moves forward and drops his own cloth into the lukewarm water. He swirls it around, dissipating his reflection, and shakes it out once he picks it back up. He suddenly feels acutely aware of how close the distance between them is, and gingerly brings the wet cloth down against his skin. It’s cooler when it touches him, but the damp cloth feels welcome against his skin. Shiro doesn’t hide the way he watches Keith, and Keith can feel his skin prickle under the gaze.

“They kept me in captivity made me fight other prisoners,” Shiro says, and Keith brings the cloth down into the bucket again. “Either they died or I died. Most of them were bigger and angrier at first, which made it easy to take them down. But the more opponents I killed, the more I became the thing to fear. That was my life for a year.”

“A year?” Keith blinks, looking at Shiro. Shiro nods, presses his lips together before he closes his eyes and runs the cloth over his face.

“I escaped by the grace of a group of knights,” Shiro says. Keith waits for him to continue, but Shiro pauses at the thought. Something crosses his face, and his gaze rakes over Keith. Keith feels small under his scrutinizing eyes, and self-consciously raises his cloth. Shiro visibly follows the movement of Keith’s hand as he runs the cloth under his neck and around his shoulders.

“It’s not doing a lot for you, is it?” Shiro asks, and Keith balks a little at the change of topic. It doesn’t surprise him completely though; Keith understands the need to stop right before unearthing something old and unpleasant.

“What isn’t?” Keith asks, and Shiro’s still watching him wipe down. Keith can smell faint rosehips on himself now and has to admit, it feels nice finally being cleaner than an average bog creature. He sees the grime come off on his cloth, and feels bad dipping it back in the water, but Shiro’s not using it.

“The quintessence,” Shiro says after a long pause. He resumes wiping himself down, though evidently half-hearted.  “I could tell by the way you moved today. Your energy is there, but it’s hollow.”

“It’s enough to keep me going,” Keith shrugs, unsure where this is going and Shiro narrows his eyes.

“But it’s not the way you need to feed,” Shiro says, and Keith shakes his head.

“The way I need to feed,” Keith slaps the wet cloth against his own face. It’s cold now, and welcome because he never really likes this topic. “I wouldn’t want to ask from anyone here.”

“Why not?” the questions seems innocent enough, but Keith keeps the cloth planted on his face so that he doesn’t have to make eye contact.

“If I feed off anyone,” he explains. “It shaves off a few years of their life without them noticing till later. I don’t want to do that to anyone.”

“I know, but what about people with longer lifespans?” Shiro asks, and Keith drops the cloth. “People who aren’t fully human? It applies to almost everyone in this camp.”

“Who doesn’t it apply to?” Keith asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Matthew and his sister. Both human.” Shiro says. “A lot of people here are part something else too. It’s how we survive.”

“Oh,” Keith frowns. “As long as someone is still partially human, it’ll affect them.”

“And if you tried with a demon?”

“Like myself?” Keith tips his head, curious as to where Shiro’s going with this.

“Sure,” Shiro nods, and Keith presses his lips together as he thinks about it.

“I’ve never tried.” He replies honestly. “But I heard the energy is better than a human’s. It’s just harder to convince them. Humans are easy.”

“Are they?”

“So I’ve heard,” Keith says, and this time, he’s the one that remains silent as Shiro looks at him expectantly. He’s not quite sure where Shiro’s going with this, doesn’t think Shiro’s going to clarify any time soon.

“By tomorrow night, the Galra should catch wind of our camp,” Shiro says finally, and dumps his cloth in the bucket. He makes no move to pick it up, and instead walks away from the bucket. He grabs two towels off the top of a wooden chest and walks back towards Keith. “If they move fast like they normally do, we’ll have a fight on our hands by day after.”

Shiro tosses one towel towards Keith, and Keith fumbles with it. He watches Shiro run the towel over his damp body, the water glistening off of him in the lamp light. It’s oddly distracting, and it doesn’t help that Shiro has been talking to Keith about his feeding. Keith watches the way Shiro’s large arms move as he towels himself off, unaware of how Keith’s staring. When he looks back up, Keith immediately buries his face in his towel, pretending to dry off.

“Do you need to properly feed?” he hears Shiro ask, and Keith almost chokes. He digs his face deeper into the cloth, trying hard not to make a noise. “We can make an arrangement.”

Keith’s sure Shiro does not mean it that way—  he’s sure Shiro at least does not mean it in a way that Keith wants - _needs -_ him to mean it. He cannot allow himself to imagine Shiro offering it to him either, because it’s going to cause Keith to fall down a well of thoughts that would pointedly not be productive.

It’s hard enough to see Shiro standing shirtless with a white dusting of hair trailing down past the band of his trousers without his own mouth going dry. Keith inhales sharply, tries to tame himself for a moment and not think about the man in front of him. He’ll sneak into the town tomorrow, he thinks, and make sure that he’s well fed enough that he can help Shiro fight. It’s the least he owes to a friend that’s tried to nurse him back to health.

“No,” Keith says, as he surfaces from the towel. Catching the brisk nature of his own reply, Keith quickly adds on, “The quintessence is enough. Thank you, sire.”

Keith must look a lot worse than he thinks, because Shiro hums and looks at him like he doesn’t quite believe him. That look lasts him till they’ve changed, Shiro into his night clothes and Keith into borrowed clothes that are too large for him.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable there?” Shiro asks as Keith settles into his bed roll. He still has one of the dark furs draped over it; it’s warm in the cold summer nights, and he’s not inclined to return it unless requested.

“Better than the  forest floor,” Keith tries to say as genially as possible. It doesn’t seem to be the answer Shiro’s looking for, but before Keith can prod any further, Shiro extinguishes the last lamp.  
  


* * *

  
  
He's dreaming. Keith is extremely aware that this isn’t anything that could happen in reality. That in part is why he soaks in it as much as his dream will let him.

The stone bath is dug into the ground and tall torches stand in each corner, bathing the room in a warm light. Keith’s only seen a place like this once when he had travelled in the south, and it had been from a distance.  Water laps gently around him, the smell of rosehips and incense strong in the room. He is warm and pliant and completely alone, save for the large body underneath him.

“Easy,” Shiro murmurs underneath him, hands solid and sure on Keith's hips. His skin glows golden in the low torch light and the dip of his collarbone collects a pool of sweat. Keith knows it's a dream but wants to hold onto it for as long as he can because in this dream, Shiro moves in him with certainty.

He’s holding close as he gently thrusts up into Keith, murmuring praise. Keith feels no pain, no irritation of doing this in water; he just feels full, like he's on the verge of bursting. It's vague and liminal in the way dream-feelings are, but it still sets his insides on fire.  He skims hands across damp skin, digging fingers into the meat of Shiro’s chest when Shiro snaps up particularly hard.

“ _Ah_ ,” Keith lets out a sharp moan when Shiro shifts the angle, and Shiro licks at his neck. He can’t form words beyond that and the water sloshes around them as Shiro starts to drive into him with more power. It's still slow and languid, and Keith can feel the stretch in his thighs as he straddles Shiro's body.

Shiro bites his lower lip and worries it till it’s a flush red; it entices Keith and makes him want to taste it, so he leans forward for a kiss. It’s wet and warm, and Keith can feel the pinpricks of Shiro’s claws dig into his hip as he licks his way into Shiro’s mouth. This is something he knows well, both in his dreams and in consciousness, and he guides the kiss till Shiro’s groaning in his mouth.

Keith's not feeding. He's just moving, being moved without any intent beyond the two of them meeting each other over and over again. This how he knows for sure it's a dream— here, in this bath, light and water skittering across the marble floors, they hold each other out of desire and not out of necessity.

Keith tries to move on his own, try to rock his hips down onto Shiro but Shiro has control over him. The smell of rosehips grows stronger, and Keith feels the coil tighten in him. Shiro is looking at him like he wants to devour him and Keith wants to drink it in forever. Wants to be wanted like this, wants to be needed like this, wants to be moved like this and—

A loud _CLANG_ echoes through Keith’s ears, jolting him awake.  At the sound of the first shout, he shoots up in his bed roll. It’s dark in the tent, but Keith’s leapt to his feet in less than a second. There’s loud noises outside, and a lamp roars to life from beside Shiro’s bed. Even from a distance Keith can make out the distinctly troubled look on Shiro’s face—  this wasn’t supposed to happen yet.

“They’re here,” Shiro says, haphazardly launching out of his bed. Keith doesn’t say anything, doesn’t question anything; Shiro’s passing him a shield before he knows what he’s doing.

“Grab a sword,” Shiro commands, and yanks some of his armour off the post. He tosses it towards Keith, and Keith’s barely caught it before Shiro’s sliding on his own hauberk and chestplate over his sleeping clothes. Shiro hoists a large round shield onto one arm and grabs for one of the swords Keith had sharpened with the other and in a blink of an eye, has dashed out of the tent.

Hastily, Keith straps a pauldron onto himself and picks up the shield. There’s a loud commotion outside, and he grabs the first sword in reach before he follows Shiro out. It weighs heavy in his hand, and Keith sends a quick prayer that the quintessence he has in him is enough.

The scene that greets him as he charges out is chaos. One of the tents are on fire and the horses have been cut loose, stampeding through the camp in a panic. There’s yelling and shouting and that’s all Keith can absorb before a large soldier jumps on him, swinging.

The first thing Keith does is get rid of is his glamour, needing to make every drop of energy count. The second thing he does is throw off the man that has tried to attack him, the man whose eyes widen in surprise when he sees Keith turn into something that looks more animalistic.

Keith doesn’t think; he drives forward with his sword, and uses the twist and momentum of the other man’s parry to land a kick square in the man’s stomach. It’s hard and winds him, but it’s a precursor to Keith swinging his blade around and sending it singing through the man’s torso. He staggers back, gasping, and Keith doesn’t wait before he delivers another killing blow. He feels the air behind him fill up and Keith turns and throws his shield up, blocking a blow from another Galra.

The emblazoned tent illuminates the night like hellfire; the camp has been flooded with large, inhuman soldiers and Keith strains as he tries to take down as many as possible. He catches sight of Shiro, fighting off two at a time, sees a large halberd being brought down on Hunk and he deflects it within a hair’s width.

Keith manages to fend off another Galra soldier, one who’s particularly grotesque and hairy and violent. The soldier tries to bludgeon him with their mace, but the chain wraps around Keith’s sword and he yanks, pulling the soldier forward and headbutting them as hard as he can. The crunch of his forehead against their face causes them to crumple, and he manages to untangle his sword just in time.

In the distance, he sees more Galra soldiers hone in on Shiro, and Keith’s priorities shift to getting to him as fast as he can.

The clearing of the camp is small, but feels like a massive battlefield with the amount of Galra that have flooded it. Keith tries to mow them down  as he approaches them, one by one, determined to reach Shiro. He sees another soldier sends a spear through two Galra fighters, and that’s when Keith realizes what is peculiar about the scene.

The Galra horde look violent, have deranged smiles on that speak to their confidence that by flooding the camp, they’re going to be able to easily stomp out a pest. That is expected. Shiro and his fighters have the exact same look on their face— they’re outnumbered, but each of them fight with the confidence of people who have a thousand men behind them.  The Galra may think that a surprise attack will have Shiro cornered like prey, but Keith quickly realizes that this is a fight between predators.

It’s not like training. Tearing down whoever tries to attack him is taking a toll on Keith, and he can feel the quintessence drain from him with every blow. The strain in his muscles comes quick, but the adrenaline of the fight masks it as he brings his sword down.

Another Galra soldier attacks him and Keith blocks it with his sword. The soldier presses down, determined to get him to yield and In the light of the fiery tent, Keith catches the glint of gold off the hilt of his own sword and realizes that he’s grabbed Shiro’s sword.

The soldier bares her teeth at him and Keith ducks, letting her weight swing both the swords in a downward arc. He gets close enough to drive an elbow into her face and she groans and staggers back. Keith gets closer to Shiro, and sees another Galra advance on him while he fends off two others.

“Shiro!” Keith calls out, but doesn't wait for his friend to hear him as he runs towards him. With all his might, Keith tosses his shield like a disc towards the Galra soldier. It meets its mark, banging against the arm of the creature. It howls in pain, just as Shiro swings and catches it in the stomach with his sword.

“Keith! You-” Shiro calls out in return, and that’s when Keith catches the Galra emerge from the shadow.The Galra rises up behind Shiro, and right as Shiro turns on it, it brings a large wooden stake down through his chest with resonating force. Shiro lets out a shout and starts to stagger back, falling backwards with the wood that’s pierced his armour.

Time slows down around Keith, his shock numbing him. His legs aren’t taking him fast enough across the campground. Keith's running out of energy fast. Whatever quintessence he had has depleted in him in the fight, but Keith doesn't care. All he feels is rage as he sees Shiro slump to his knees on the ground, grasping the thick wood that’s been driven through him. Everything else starts to fade out and Keith charges.

He launches with a roar towards the soldier, taking him by surprise. Keith doesn't waste any time; using the last ounce of energy he has, he takes a running leap towards the large man and brings Shiro's sword swinging down with a fiery type of vengeance. The other man, having been too fixated on driving the stake through Shiro, can’t deflect Keith in time. The blade connects at the junction of his shoulder and Keith's weight pulls it down towards the ground.

The sound of it is satisfying and as the soldier yells in pain, Keith drives his sword through him again and again, barraging down on him with fury. The soldier gurgles, and right as Keith tries to send one more maiming blow, something grabs Keith by the hair and yanks him back. Keith turns on his heel, ignoring the searing pain as his scalp twists, and tries to bring his sword down with the same amount of rage on his new opponent.  The soldier catches the sword with one scaly hand and clobbers Keith across the head with the other, sending pain dancing through his entire upper body.

Two pairs of hands grab Keith before he can do anything else, each trying to yank him in a different direction. He grunts and drops to his knees fast enough to send them crashing head first into each other. Keith stumbles down from the movement but detaches himself quickly and rolls, trying to get out of the way, and narrowly misses a sword being brought down on him.

It seems that every Galra soldier in the immediate area has decided to converge on Keith. One kicks him, and he gasps in pain. The quintessence isn’t knitting energy within him fast enough, and Keith can feel it in the way his reactions slow down. Panic starts to seep out of him at an alarming rate, as it becomes quite clear that he’s outnumbered in every way.

Keith tries to get to his feet, but he’s knocked down by another soldier. His quickly depleting energy makes him feel the pain more and Keith’s vision starts to go black around the edges.

Keith _thinks_ he hears someone call his name in the distance. In the delirium of immense pain, he thinks it’s Shiro. Keith starts to black out with the sight of three Galra hovering above him, one of them with a nasty grin as they raise a massive mace. He tries to lift his body but he can’t and—

The Galra lets out a pathetic cry of surprise, and Keith sees the silhouette of a giant stake emerge from their chest. It’s yanked out as quickly as it had emerged, and the Galra falls aside. Their two companions don’t have time to react before the stake is sent through one, left there while a sword swings towards the head of the other. The two bodies thump to the ground towards Keith and he blinks hard, trying to clear his vision as he looks up.

Behind the fallen bodies, Shiro stands, large and intimidating and absolutely feral, a giant red splotch staining the front of his chainmail. Keith does not have to be able to see properly to feel the fury radiating off of Shiro in this moment, the anger dripping down from the man. It’s clear why there are so many terrifying tales of him spread throughout the lands.

But also, some sort of happiness courses through Keith to see Shiro alive. It’s faint in the face of his weakness, but it’s there. Keith has completely run out of any life-giving energy now, and his entire body hurts fiercely. At least, he thinks before he falls completely unconscious, he could see his friend’s face again one last time.

 

* * *

  


Keith swims back into wakefulness, surprisingly warm and comfortable.

Whatever he’s lying on is decidedly softer than the bedroll he’s had for the past few days. It’s plush, almost, and he can feel a thick weight on top of him. He shifts and sees dark furs spill around him. The soft blue light bleeding through the canvas of the tent tells him it’s barely dawn, and Keith feels warm.

He feels tired too, feels the cool touch of the quintessence within him as it lazily winds through his body. Someone must have fed him some, because while Keith feels weak, he doesn’t feel utterly destroyed. His arm tingles and he tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes, raises one hand to rub at his face.

The night comes back in pieces to him. He remembers fighting, remembers pushing himself to a limit that had been fast approaching. Keith remembers bring his sword through soldiers repeatedly, till he had been knocked down. He remembers Shiro standing above him, and does not remember much after that.

Keith is sore all over, and he groans as he squeezes his right hand into a fist. He rotates his wrist and it cracks loudly; the skin is still purple, and he can’t gather enough energy to cast a glamour. Something moves beside him, and Keith freezes.  Slowly, nervously, he turns over.

Keith thinks he might have died. That his body is either still laying on the campground or has been buried somewhere, and that his consciousness has floated into whatever type of afterlife creatures like him get. That’s the only reason he can think of as to why he would turn over in a comfortable bed and come face to face with Shiro.

“You’re awake,” Shiro says, from where he’s sprawled on his stomach. He rests his head on his folded arms and looks at Keith through sleep-mussed hair. “How are you feeling?”

Keith blinks, trying to process the question and the situation at large. He has two sudden urges that run concurrently; one is to pull in close to Shiro till they’re sharing body heat, and the second is to leap out of the bed and into the woods. Fortunately, he has energy for neither.

“Uh,” is the most Keith manages to muster out, voice dry and rasping. He coughs, tries to clear his throat and lick his lips as he attempts to speak again. “I, uh. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Shiro asks, voice muffled by his own arm. “For what?”

For passing out mid-battle. For letting the quintessence completely drain out of him. For somehow managing to find his way into what clearly is Shiro’s bed. Keith feels like he needs to apologize for a lot of things, and that he needs to run away before his body feels rested enough to start having a reaction to having Shiro warm and solid beside him.

Shiro must sense his discomfort, because he rolls over onto his back and pushes himself upwards. His shirt hangs loose around him, and Keith tries not to stare in the same haze that he had fallen under during his first night at the camp. He turns away from Keith to reach for something on the small table he keeps his lamp on, and comes back with a small flask.

“Drink this,” Shiro says, popping open the lid and pushing it towards Keith. Keith sees the familiar glisten, and shakes his head.

“I don’t want to take any more than I already have from you,” Keith says, and Shiro frowns. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Shiro says, trying to give Keith the flask again. Keith tries to push it away again but Shiro lets out a little growl that has him going still. “Keith.”

“Give it to someone who needs it more,” Keith says, unsure of why he’s putting this fight up in the first place. His mind is still trying to wrap around waking up in the same bed as Shiro and he thinks if he drinks quintessence, it just might succeed in a way he does not want it to. To try and soften it, he adds a “Sire,” at the end.

“You are that someone,” Shiro states more than insists, and the tone of his voice has Keith tensing up. “Everyone is accounted for. You deserve this.”

Keith grudgingly reaches for the flask, and Shiro does not let it go until Keith’s pressing it to his lips. He sits himself up on one elbow as he gulps down the quintessence, the familiar sweetness making itself home in him once again.

His head feels heavy, and Keith closes his eyes as the flask is removed. He inhales through his nose, and opens his eyes to search and see if his bedroll is still where he left it. Keith sees it and tries to muster up enough energy to shift off of the bed.  He’s barely moved his leg off, when there’s a large hand on his hip to stop him. The touch sends sparks flitting underneath the cloth of his shirt, but it’s gone as soon as it lands.

“I need-” Keith starts, and Shiro shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be taking up your bed.”

“People who fight hard get rewarded accordingly,” Shiro tells him, and Keith raises an eyebrow. “I’m allowing you to rest here.”

“You do this with everyone?” Keith blurts out, and immediately regrets it. Shiro seems to be fine with it though, because he shoots Keith a smile.

“Only old friends who raze down half my enemies,” he replies easily, and the large hand is back, this time on Keith’s shoulder. “Friends who played no small part in helping me wipe out a regiment that I’ve been after for weeks.”

It presses gently and Keith follows and this time, it remains. It moves the slightest amount, enough to meet where the collar of Keith’s shirt ends. Keith can feel the warm pulse of Shiro’s life through the brush of his palm against Keith’s skin, and it feels intense in ways he cannot describe. It’s a lot stronger than it had been before, and Keith cannot even begin to imagine how it would be like to be fed by this kind of power. Keith tries to keep his exhale quiet, tries to keep it normal. Shiro moves till he’s hovering just above Keith, looking down at him with an expression Keith can’t quite place.

Keith can’t help what comes out next.

“I need to feed properly,” he bursts, and feels the hand instantly drop from his shoulder. Keith grieves the loss deeply for a moment, but his head is feels incredibly weak so he takes it for what it is and forges forward. “The quintessence left me fast in the middle of the fight. I don’t want that to happen again.”

“Okay,” Shiro replies evenly, looking down at Keith. “What do you want to do?”

Keith’s skin buzzes and something in him tells him that this is his chance. This is his chance to ask Shiro to help him. Anyone else in his clan would use his fight as leverage in convincing Shiro to feed him.

“Is the town safe?” Keith asks, and Shiro squints before he nods slowly. “I’ll ride in. I’ll find— I’ll find someone at a tavern or something.”

Shiro doesn’t reply to that. He continues to stare at Keith with a searching look on his face. It makes Keith squirm, makes his skin itch underneath and while he’s still too out-of-it to feel anything more he is still acutely aware of the distance between them. Heat rolls off Shiro’s body, and Keith wants to know how Shiro managed to survive getting impaled. Keith can still vividly recall him slumping down, and the amount of fury that had made itself known in Keith. He’s about to voice as much, but Shiro finally speaks again.

“Rest now,” Shiro says, pulling up the furs on Keith. “Go, but when you can move without falling over. Tell me if you need more quintessence.”

“I don’t think I will,” Keith says, and Shiro presses his lips together in a tight smile. It takes him a few more moments before it relaxes, but Keith knows there’s something unspoken in the way Shiro looks at him. He thinks it might be another stage of realization that Keith has changed as much as he has. Keith knows that he’s still having a hard time parsing out what exactly Shiro has become.

“If you say so,” Shiro replies. Pauses. The smile he gives Keith now is small, but genuine. “Thank you for fighting for us. For me.”

There’s earnestness in his words that clasps at Keith’s heart in a more human way. Keith opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He feels, yet again, out of time, out of place, feels yet again that they are in the castle they had called home and not in a half-destroyed camp in the middle of the woods.

Shiro turns to put away the flask and when he lays back down beside Keith, he rolls onto his side till Keith can only stare at his broad back. It’s a marked end to the conversation but not  an unfriendly one. Keith tries to let go of the tension in his spine and properly settle back down into the mattress. He’s oscillating between bone-deep exhaustion and being attuned to Shiro’s presence in a precise way. Keith closes his eyes, and tries to give in to the former over the latter.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional tag note: After Keith wakes up from his special dream, the Galra ambush the camp. The violence starts pretty much as he heads out, ends as he's passing out with Shiro standing above him.


	3. Chapter 3

The golden sky stretches around Keith, casting a rich glow on the stone wall of the town that he’s quickly approaching. His horse, still skittish from the night before, keeps trying to break into a canter but Keith’s just as nervous as her and works hard at reining her in. He feels sort of ridiculous right now and he doesn’t know if he’s prepared yet, but Keith’s determined to feed.

Shiro’s camp is moving out the next morning, and Shiro has made it explicitly clear that should he want, Keith has a place with them moving forward. Apparently his act in tearing down multiple Galra soldiers has earned him respect in a camp where it’s hard-won. He had helped in the clean-up efforts as well, as much as the quintessence would allow him.

Shiro had given him a lot more quintessence than he had before, allowing the elixir to stick faster to Keith. It’s enough that now, as he approaches the town they had been seized from the Galra hold, Keith has more than enough energy to put on and maintain a glamour. This town is filled with humans and it’s always a guess as to how many of them will be receptive to Keith’s natural form— and Keith needs to make this as easy for himself as possible.

He was returned the clothes he had been found in; they’re clean now, and he wears them under a large, dark russet coloured cloak that Shiro had given him. It’s got black fur lining the corner and makes Keith appear a lot broader than he is. He had dipped in the river to clean off earlier in the day and he’s got his hair tied in a low braid so that he seems less feral. Keith had gotten a glimpse of himself in a dented shield, and thinks that this is the most put together he’s ever looked. He might just have a chance.

Keith is not planning to be too discerning. He’s just determined to find the first mildly appealing person desperate enough to sleep with him, and feed just enough to keep him going for a while. He has become rather good at rationing his energy and thinks that one night might last him long enough for him to figure out what to do next. If he doesn't feed on his mark, he cannot go back to his clan but if he stays with Shiro, he might be tempted to throw a lot of caution to the wind. If _that_ goes terribly, Keith would find himself yet again without a home.

The guard at the large gate of the wall recognizes the clasp on Keith’s cloak and lets him in with no trouble. It’s part of the reason Shiro had given it to him. The cloak thankfully had been sitting around in a chest for too long to smell like Shiro; Keith thinks he would have lost his sanity if it did. The thought of using Shiro to regain his energy has been haunting Keith, moreso when he had woken up a second time in his bed, more well-rested. Shiro had long left, but the mattress had remained warm in his wake, and it took every fibre of Keith’s self restraint to not bury himself into the fabric and surround himself.

It had gotten so bad that Keith had almost asked Shiro asked outright. It had been when Shiro had first draped the cloak around him in the tent and defly tied the clasp, saying something about the clothing ensuring Keith would be able to draw in someone. The question had been on the tip of Keith’s tongue as he had watched Shiro’s dexterous fingers knot the strings together, but had died out when he had opened his mouth. Keith’s meant to fight and not to bed, and he does not want to disappoint Shiro in one way when he has earned his respect in another.

The iron gate creaks as it rises, and the sun sets further on the horizon. Keith’s heartbeat picks up as the guard ushers him in, and the sound of his horse’s hooves against the cobble echo through his ears. The thrum of activity in the town makes itself known. Keith’s skin prickles with it but still— he’s unsure if he’ll succeed.

Shiro has asked him if he’s coming back within the night, because the camp wants to have a celebratory feast for their victory, and Keith has told him he’ll try. But Keith, more than anything, wants to feed so that he can stop existing on empty energy. If he was properly fed, he would have lasted a lot longer in the fight against the Galra. Shiro has told him that he had done more than enough, but Keith knows that he is capable of so much more.

Keith has not given Shiro an answer to his invitation yet, unsure about whether or not he should return to his clan, but he has cannot lie to himself about where his heart lies. He does not want to be a liability, but Shiro has made that offer despite seeing Keith fail and fall unconscious at a crucial moment. Keith thinks he’ll have a clearer idea once he’s fed, so he tries to clear his mind and focus entirely on one thing.

All he needs is one night.

 

* * *

 

The tavern that Keith slips into is bustling. They seem to be jovial, celebrating the defeat of the Galra, at least from what Keith hears. He’s stationed at a small rickety table in one of the darker corners of the tavern, has been there for three quarters of an hour at his guess. Keith had gotten a few looks as he had tried to find a table, presumably because his cloak seems a little ostentatious in the presence of townsfolk. He had gotten jostled around by a few overly-happy patrons, but he kept a smile on his face as he made his way to his seat with focus. It will do him well not to antagonize anyone while he’s here.

There seems to be a wide variety of people in the tavern and Keith spends his time assessing as many of them as he can. The barmaid had been the first one to be crossed off the list. Keith had given her a silver coin and what he had hoped was a charming smile, and she had given him a disinterested glance and slammed down a tankard on the table. Keith doesn’t blame her— he’s heard his charming smiles tend to lean towards more garish and terrifying than seductive.

He tries to remember what he had been taught by the members of his clan who had a little more patience with him. Tries to remember what kind of smile to have, what kind of expression to wear. Keith knows he should get up, move around the room and approach people, but he knows that the fragments of appeal he has lay in him appearing silent and mysterious. It tends to draw in those who are curious and brave, but there have been none of those. Not yet anyways.

The quintessence still runs cool and sweet in him and he welcomes the feeling. It grounds him, makes him alert enough to keep his glamour up. The last time Keith had fed, it had been siphoned energy and it had felt euphoric at first in a way that had reached him till his toes. When he gets to feed on a real person, Keith knows it will be numbing in the best way. He’s considering drawing out some of the energy he collects and storing it for himself, just so that he does not end up starving as bad as he did when he had first reached the camp. For as long as he can help it anyways.

His mind drifts again as he scans the bar. There are a few people who seem to be vaguely interesting, but no one quite plucks at his attention. A small voice in him reminds him that it’s because he’s been given an order to feed on a specific person, a man who is unparalleled in the way he commands Keith’s interest. And the type of life that pulses through Shiro— every time he’s made contact with Keith’s skin, it sends a rush through Keith. His hands had brushed over Keith’s neck when he had wrapped the collar of the cloak around him, and Keith had to curl his fist to stop himself from making a sound.

Keith’s so starved, and wonders idly if Shiro would have the same effect if he was fed. Wonders idly if Shiro would have the same effect after he fed Keith. Wonders how Shiro would do that, getting so lost in it that he almost doesn’t notice the patron a few tables away casting his eyes towards Keith. Almost.

Keith is still hungry, so right before the man looks away, he catches his eye.

He’s passable. Keith feels no sort of way towards him; he’s got a pointed jaw and dark hair and is dressed like some of the other merchants Keith has seen milling about. There’s nothing quite remarkable about him, but he’s throwing eyes towards Keith that have some intent behind them. Keith crooks the corner of his mouth just so and raises his tankard in the man’s direction. He hasn’t drank from it yet, but it’s provided a good prop while he surveyed the room. He sips, places it back down, and waits to see if the man is forward or wants to play a game of chicken.

The man, thankfully, is forward. He pushes away from his own table, says something to his tablemates and glances towards Keith with a grin. It’s bland verging on greasy, but he approaches Keith and that’s really all the standards Keith has at the moment. He just wants to feed, bring his body back to something normal, and rejoin Shiro at the camp.

“Haven’t seen you around ever,” the man says, pleasant enough as he approaches Keith. Keith raises an eyebrow, and he takes it as a sign to pull up the other chair of the table and take a seat.

“I’m not from here,” Keith says, running a finger over the clasp of his cloak. The man sees it, catches the insignia, and sucks in a short breath.

“You were in the woods then, huh?” He says, and drags his chair around the circumference of the table. Keith makes himself smile at the gesture, senses a little bit of the man’s interest radiating off of him. Good. There’s a little bit of awe in his voice when he says, “Heard your camp did a good bit with the Galra and wiped out a regiment.”

“We kept busy,” Keith says idly, and watches the man drop his gaze to Keith’s lips.

Keith inherently is not seductive, but he can hold a conversation. He tries to go for people for whom that’s the only standard they need met, and it seems like this man is one of them. He starts to talk about himself, tells Keith he’s a stall merchant in town, and Keith pays no attention to what he says. He observes instead for cues that the man has a sustained interest in him. He hopes that he does, because Keith wants to make quick work out of it. As always, something in Keith feels terrible about having to feed on a human, but he suppresses it. He, after all, has to survive too.

“Your eyes are remarkable,” the man says, smiling and leaning in. Keith smiles a little wider in return, even though the tavern is too dimly lit for his eyes to be any form of distinguishable. Unless his glamour is dropping. He takes another sip from the tankard, letting it warm him and wet his lips. He feels the man watching him, and asks him what he sells.

Fruit, as it turns out. And the man is more than happy to talk about it. Keith listens to the cadence of his voice and picks up the growing excitement, and silently counts it as a victory. He’s finally going to feed. Keith pays just enough attention that when the man asks him a question about himself, he remembers to answer. The man gestures a lot, and Keith watches his hands with empty fascination. They’re not as large as he likes; this man in general is a lot leaner than what Keith prefers. He tries not to think about when he suddenly got a preference, and tries to focus on making sure he’s engaging the man just enough that the night will work in his favour.

He still doesn’t know what the man’s name is, but he’s hedging his bets on him. Keith leans in to listen to something he says about an angry customer from two days ago, and the man is positively beaming. He seems to be easy to please.

“You seem to be a know a lot about this place,” Keith says in a low voice, rough around the edges the way he had been taught. The words themselves are bland, but he quirks his mouth again and licks his lips. “I wish I had gotten a chance to see more.”

The man takes the bait, places a hand on Keith’s bicep. He squeezes, and Keith counts his luck quick.

“How long are you in town for?” he asks Keith, and Keith raises an eyebrow. “If you want, I can…”

The man trails off, and Keith thinks he’s just gotten lost in the middle of an innuendo. He waits patiently, tips his head in his best ‘ _go on_ ’ gesture, but the man remains silent, staring off at something in the distance. Keith attunes himself more to the present, and realizes the noise of the tavern has dimmed down enough for it to be noticeable. Confused, Keith tries to follow his line of sight.

“What are you— oh,” the soft sound of surprise escapes Keith before he can help it.

A few steps from the entrance of the tavern stands a man who is incredibly tall, incredibly broad, and incredibly familiar. He’s wearing the same dark furs and leathers that stand in an almost aggressive contrast to his white hair and strong jaw. An ornate hilt peeks out from under his long black cloak, and Keith sees the glint of the vambraces he had so delicately hammered dents out from a few days ago. He’s talking to the same barmaid who had helped Keith earlier, and she looks at him with a modicum more of respect than she ever directed towards Keith.

“Sorry,” the man says rushedly, turning back to Keith. “Got distracted.”

“It’s alright,” Keith replies half-heartedly, still staring at Shiro who’s now smiling at the barmaid, unaware that the group of men and women at the table they are standing near is all staring at him. “Go on.”

“Yes, uh,” the man smacks his lips, and Keith forces himself to direct his attention back towards him. Shiro’s presence is like a giant beast though, one that Keith cannot ignore. He tries to shift in his chair, angle his head just enough that if Shiro surveys the room, he will not be able to see Keith. Keith’s fatal flaw is overestimating his own ability to prevent himself from checking to see what his friend is doing here.

Keith takes a quick glance, and immediately catches Shiro’s eye. Shiro raises one gloved hand in his direction, and Keith raises his own weakly.

“You know him?” the man asks from beside him, and Keith nods and offers no further explanation. The man casts Keith a slightly nervous look, one that grows as Shiro starts to walk towards their table, half-smile visible on his face in the dull yellow light of the tavern.

The man, to his credit, attempts to pick up the conversation again. Keith knows he should listen, knows that he should land this easy target and get it done with, but his eyes can’t help flitting over to Shiro as he advances on them like a menacing spectre. Keith thinks that he’s dreaming maybe— or more likely, Shiro has just that little faith in Keith’s capabilities. Rightly so.

“Keith,” Shiro says, and Keith tips his head in his direction in an acknowledgement. He tries to silently give a look to Shiro that somehow conveys he’s fine, he’s found someone, he’s managed not to trip over his feet. Shiro doesn’t seem to get it.

“I’d like to talk to my friend,” Shiro says, voice friendly but firm. The man stares at him, and Shiro raises his eyebrows, nodding towards his chair.

The man is stupidly brave, Keith will give him that much. Because the first words out of his mouth are, “Your friend is busy right now. Are you sure he wants to talk to you?” followed by him raking his eyes over Shiro, sizing him up like he would stand a chance against him.

It’s then that Keith knows that the man is officially a lost cause. He’s not a fan of men who overestimate what they can do, not when he knows what true power is, and— Keith catches himself. Shiro’s eyes narrow, and he smiles tightly at the man. Keith tenses.

Shiro tips his chin up, taps the underside of his jaw to draw the man attention to the brand on his skin. Keith sees the moment the man’s overly-confident demeanor disappears, along with the colour in his face. He gulps, looks at Keith frantically for a moment, and Keith shrugs. The man immediately turns back to Shiro and bows his head low.

“My apologies, sire,” the man says, incredibly deferential. Shiro gives a larger, more terrifying smile at the man as he stands up and he grasps the man’s shoulder, rooting him to the spot. Keith watches as Shiro presses a silver coin into the man’s palm.

“Payment for your seat,” he says in a deceptively sweet voice, and the man’s scurrying back to his table with his friends. He casts one more furtive glance back at Keith, and Keith only briefly mourns the loss of a potential feeding because all his hungry brain can think about now is the man sliding onto the wooden chair beside him.

“I was doing fine,” Keith says in lieu of a greeting towards Shiro, using irritation to mask whatever else he’s feeling. “I nearly had him.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Shiro says, raising an eyebrow at Keith. “Was that someone you wanted, though?”

“He’s someone that would have done fine,” Keith grumbles with no real heat, and pushes his tankard towards Shiro. Shiro takes it without further word, and Keith speaks as he raises the wooden mug to his lips. “Why'd you come?” and then a belated “Sire”.

Shiro takes a contemplative swallow of the beer, and smiles around the lip of the tankard before he sets it down.

“Something told me you'd be having difficulty,” he says evenly. “Everyone back at the camp is wondering where you are. I thought I'd come by and speed up the process so that they would stop nagging me.”

“You thought wrong,” Keith says, and Shiro laughs at that. He leans in, and Keith automatically finds himself mirroring the action.

“You don’t have to sit like a statue in the darkest corner of this place,” he says in a low and quiet voice. “And you don't have to saddle yourself with the first person to show some courage. People are watching you, Keith.”

Keith frowns, and reaches for the tankard. “They weren't before you came.”

“And now you have their attention,” Shiro says, and Keith wants to shake his head and tell him that it's Shiro who has their attention. He thinks it'll fall to deaf ears anyways. “You’re handsome. You can get someone better.”

The words ring through Keith's ears like a bell.He takes a sip to hide his gulp, and watches as Shiro leans back in his chair and gives him the same crooked smile Keith had been practicing on the other man. Shiro's comes with a little more ease, a little more danger.

“Fine,” Keith finally concedes. “Help me find someone then.”

Shiro nods silently, looking incredibly amused. Seeing him smile is akin to staring at the sun, so Keith turns away before he can get further blinded and forget what he’s here for. They settle into a silence, one that seems to be comfortable for Shiro and anything but for Keith.

A few people are still staring but hastily look away when Keith catches them. Keith sighs through his nose, and he heard Shiro snort from beside him. Keith skims around, and spots a small redhead sitting alone at a table.

“How about them?” Keith tips his chin in their direction, and Shiro follows his line of sight. He shakes his head, and Keith frowns. “Why not?”

“A breeze would knock them over,” Shiro says, and Keith can't help but roll his eyes. Shiro shoots him a smile, and Keith refocuses on the room at large. The man who Keith had been talking to earlier keeps casting nervous glances in his direction and whispering to his friends. Keith feels bad, partly for the man and partly for himself.

It’s hard to survey the room when Shiro’s right beside him, his presence equal parts intimidating and enticing. It lays an invisible claim on Keith, and it's most likely why no one will dare to look over at them for more than a few moments. Keith thinks about how the pair of them must appear to others and the thought of it makes warmth curl in his belly. He tries to chase it away, knowing that he's going to start imagining an impossible standard that no one in this tavern will be able to meet.

Keith tries to point out a few more people, but Shiro shoots down each of them for various reasons. They vary, some ludicrous and some not, but each have a common thread— Keith doesn't object. He doesn't want to think about what it means, tries not to pay attention to how something in him purrs at the Shiro being so focused on what Keith needs. Keith pretends that each contender he names is someone he is seriously considering, and that he's not secretly burning for the man he is sitting with.

The pattern continues for a while. Keith points out someone and Shiro rejects them for one superficial reason after the other. Keith's hunger claws at him with each rejection, but not at the loss of a potential feeding; Keith knows that it doesn't care that Shiro is hindering Keith's plans. It just wants Shiro.

The more practical part of him is starting to take a sharp turn into annoyance. Shiro shooting down suggestions Keith wouldn’t go for anyways is one thing, but occasionally Keith will find a target that might actually be enjoyable and Shiro rejects them with an amount of authority in his voice that sounds like he’s outright forbidding Keith.

Keith's gaze wanders to the tavern doors just as they swing open, and he watches the two newest patrons walk in. The first one is unremarkable, a small man with a nervous fidget who gawps around the room with an odd, bird like smile. The second one is a man, almost as tall and broad as Shiro. In fact, he looks like him to some extent, with longer black hair. His brows are thicker and lower set, but his eyes flit around the room with ease as he follows his friend.

The man is wearing a similar merchant’s outfit as Keith's previous companion, and Keith feels his interest perk up. Shiro notices, because he sits up straighter as well and watches Keith track the man with his eyes. The man holds himself confidently, and for the first time that night Keith thinks he _might_ have just found someone he might fractionally enjoy taking to bed. And someone that might just pass Shiro’s unspoken test.

“How about—” Keith starts, about to point the man out, but Shiro puts his tankard down a little harder than necessary.

“No,” Shiro says with so much finality that it startles Keith. “Not him.”

“What? “ Keith blinks. “Why not?”

“There's something about him that's off,” Shiro says, not looking at Keith. He stares instead at the other man, sharply assessing him like a potential enemy. He doesn't elaborate any further, and Keith let's out an annoyed huff.

“Is that it?” he says, voice tight. “Or did you have a real reason?”

Shiro frowns, looks at Keith like he's surprised Keith's questioning him. Keith's patience has started to veer towards the thinner side.

“I'm going to go to him,” Keith says with his own finality. “This was fun, but I cannot actually afford to be this choosy.”

Keith makes to get up but before he even has a chance to slide off his stool, a hand wraps around his elbow in a vice grip that belies its owners easy smile.

“You fought well for me” Shiro squeezes his hand, jostling Keith a little before he shifts it to Keith's shoulder. “What kind of man am I if I don't make sure my best fighter doesn't get a proper meal and let him settle instead?”

The statement annoys Keith more than it should, and it outweighs whatever thing sparks in him at being called Shiro’s best fighter. Shiro might be able to live in real food and quintessence but Keith cannot, and he cannot afford to be picky when he's been starved for so long.

“I need to feed,” Keith blurts out and immediately hates the whine that tries to make itself known in his voice. But he _does_ need it— Shiro can pour all the quintessence into him that he wants and it won't be enough. He cannot afford to be picky. “And unless you have any better ideas, I’m going to go. Anyone will be a proper meal at this point.”

Shiro's hand remains planted on his shoulder, but he doesn't jostle Keith anymore. He stares at Keith for a moment, and Keith squirms, already wishing he could take back his desperate tone. Not his words though. He’s _starving_.

“Is that so?” Shiro asks, and then leans in, arresting Keith to the spot. “Then I have a question for you.”

Keith plants back down on the seat, part through Shiro’s guidance and part through his own volition. Shiro says nothing, and Keith sees the other man at a table a few feet away raise a hand to get a bar maid’s attention. His nervous companion sees Keith, and appears like he’s whispering something hurriedly to the man.

“Yes, sire?” Keith says in as steady a voice he can muster, and the hand on his shoulder pulls him close enough that he can feel Shiro's breath gust warm over his skin as he speaks. Despite the fact he’s getting increasingly vexed, the contact does things to Keith that he doesn't want to name, and it feels like ages before Shiro speaks again.

“Why do you not ask me to feed you?” he asks, voice low but even. Keith’s entire back goes rigid at the words, and Shiro's hand goes firm. Keith thinks he must have misheard; there’s enough noise in the tavern that he could have, even though he doesn’t know what else Shiro would be saying, not with _that_ expression on his face.

Keith tries to gulp and Shiro edges in closer, his smile dangerous now. His heart thuds in his ears and Keith tries to hold on to his last bit of sanity by pretending that the question is not actually as loaded as it feels. He thinks he splutters, but wants to pretend that he didn’t.

“It’s alright if it’s because you do not want it from me,” Shiro's voice has reached a pitch and cadence that inadvertently makes Keith's toes curl the slightest. He can't help but squirm again. “It’s not alright if it’s because you think I cannot provide it for you to begin with.”

The hand pushes, and Keith finds himself following it and turning in his seat. Shiro looks amused and curious with an undercurrent of something dark running through his face. Belatedly, Keith realizes he needs to speak. Keith briefly wonders if this is a fever dream and in reality, he’s lying unconscious in a ditch right outside of the castle walls, and that this is the last thing that he’s dreaming about before hunger takes him completely. Shiro waits patiently, and Keith takes a sickle to his brain to forage out an appropriate answer. He manages to find some iteration of the truth.

“I couldn’t ask that of you,” Keith says, and Shiro raises an eyebrow so he rushes out his next words. “I can’t drain a friend like that, when I feed on someone it—”

“Takes years off their life?” Shiro asks, and Keith nods, presses his lips together. “I know you can drain humans and creatures of the light. But with other dark creatures, it doesn’t, right?”

Keith’s eyes widen fractionally, and he nods again. A large part of him knows, _had_ known that Shiro was unnatural when he had gotten impaled and had still risen and rained destruction during the skirmish. The smile curls wider over Shiro’s face, and it sends a fire straight to the pit of Keith’s stomach.

Shiro’s hand drops from Keith’s shoulder to his thigh, resting right above his coarse trousers. Keith can feel the warmth and weight of the touch through the fabric, and he works hard to not make his breath hitch. Unconsciously, he shifts his thigh so that Shiro’s hand slides inwards just enough to draw the heat closer to Keith’s core. Shiro catches the action, gives Keith a simmering look.

“I can assure you that I haven't been a human in a long, long time.” Shiro says in that same rough voice he's used on Keith before, and there’s a tinge of amusement in his voice. It’s a thin patina over something deeper, something dark and heady from the way Shiro contemplates him. “And I think you know this too.”

It is, as it is, over for Keith. He can feel all the higher functions in him start to shut down one by one in favour of his body honing in on the weight of Shiro's hand on him. Keith opens and closes his mouth many times, but no attempt produces the words he needs. He doesn't even know what he can say. Shiro squeezes his thigh gently and Keith gulps and closes his eyes, trying to will himself to calm down. His heart hammers against his ribs and he feels that warm air again over his ear, feels Shiro’s looming presence as he leans in so close to Keith that if anyone saw, they’d have no illusions as to what was happening.

“Let me feed you,” Shiro says, and Keith pinpoints this as the exact moment the quintessence can no longer stop him from being acutely aware about how much his body wants to devour.“I’ll be more than able to handle it.”

Keith’s spinning off his axis fast, and it doesn’t help that Shiro’s looking at him with some sort of hunger. There’s no inner voice telling him that this is a bad idea. His whole body is filled with immense desire for the man sitting near him, the man with a molten touch and a voice that reaches Keith’s most base instincts. Shiro’s hand slides further up his thigh and Keith can’t help but slide down his stool just enough that Shiro’s hand is almost settled in between his legs. Almost.

“You have to tell me yes, Keith,” Shiro says, and Keith diverts his gaze once again, not wanting to show Shiro his naked desperation. He doesn’t need to think about it as much as he’s pretending to— he’s ready for Shiro to throw him on the table in front of everyone in the tavern. _That_ thought makes him shiver, and he curls his fingers against the wooden table as Shiro starts to rub a thumb in circles against Keith’s inner thigh. Shiro’s stare is heavy and Keith tries very hard to keep himself still, to not rock forward into Shiro’s inviting palm.

“Yes,” Keith says finally, and his head has started to swim too much for him to register how pathetic he sounds. For emphasis, he adds a “Please, sire.”

It’s the right thing to do, because the smile is back on Shiro’s face, like Keith’s a particularly interesting piece of prey he’s just caught.

“Good boy,” Shiro purrs, before removing his hands completely. Keith startles at the sudden lack of contact, manages to stop himself short of chasing it and catches the noise that threatens to leave him. “I think it’s time to leave.”

* * *

 

For all his act at the tavern, Shiro, as it turns out, has still yet to pick up the urgency needed.

Keith had thought they would find somewhere in town, had been hoping for it because he was burning for it, but Shiro had insisted that they ride back to the camp. Keith had foolishly agreed and at the end of their silent ride back, had seen the celebration was still in full swing. It was half with camp members, and half with local townfolk and nearby villagers who had deemed themselves brave enough to come out and drink with the group that had driven off the terrifying Galra.

“I’m glad you made it back in time while the celebration’s still on,” Shiro had said as they approached, and Keith had been on the verge of asking why it mattered. He had been itching, ready to crawl out of his skin, and when he saw Shiro slide off his horse, he followed suit.

There was a vast chorus of cheers as they arrived; for Shiro, their fearless leader, and for Keith, the man who had torn down an impressive amount of Galra. That’s what Hunk had yelled out anyways, and there was a general amount of clinking and splashing as everyone drank to them. Keith had tried his best to seem genial about it and not like he was ready to run, thinking that when the group would be done, the two of them would sneak off to Shiro’s tent. Keith had thought wrong.

He stares balefully into the large bonfire, watching it spit sparks and dance flames into the night sky. Keith’s hunger is only barely staved— before Shiro had left him, he had shoved a tankard into Keith’s hands and emptied a small flask of quintessence into it.

“Enjoy yourself for a bit,” Shiro had said, and Keith thinks he can do anything but. “I know you're hungry, but this should hold you over. I want you to see people appreciate you.”

Shiro had made sure he had taken at least a swig of the elixir before he grinned and had pressed a quick kiss to Keith’s temple. Such a simple touch had been enough to stun Keith and stop him from preventing Shiro from melting into the celebration. It had enough for him to stare at Shiro’s retreating back remorsefully, before removing his cloak and attempting to half heartedly join the celebrations.

Around the fire, just enough on the edge of it for Keith to be able to see his face illuminated by the glow, stands Shiro. He’s happily talking to someone who, from his dress, seems to be a warden. Shiro cuts an impressive figure in the firelight and Keith finds himself perpetually moments away from dragging Shiro away by the collar. The quintessence itself actually _is_ preventing Keith from keeling over to no small amount. But knowing now that Shiro is agreeable has awakened some sort of needy beast within him that is chomping at the bit. He had _promised_  Keith, and no amount of quintessence will cut what Keith needs, now that he knows it’s on the table.

Keith manages to find a seat on one of the wooden crates scattered around the fire. can still see Shiro from here, and he has no will to socialize. Keith reminds himself continuously that Shiro’s a man of greater power than Keith’s ever come across before, save for the witch that had attacked and turned him. He has duties outside of Keith to attend, and Keith keeps telling himself that as the quintessence tries to beat down Keith’s primal needs. So Keith stands around by the fire, accepting each small toast every passerby wants to give and politely engaging in small conversations before sending them away. He’s not in the mood to talk to anyone as he tempers his anticipation, not until he’s forced to.

“How’d your venture into town go?” Matt approaches Keith from behind, thumping his back before raising his hand to Keith’s neck and squeezing, jostling him in a friendly way. Keith is so focused on Shiro that he barely registers the contact, just the words. “Feed well?”

The question grates Keith more than necessary, and he knows the expression on his face is sour. It does not deter Matt from clinking his own mug against Keith’s as he drags a nearby crate and sits down beside him.

“Manage to woo anyone nice?” Matt prods on, and the grasp he has on Keith’s neck shifts to him wrapping his whole arm around Keith’s shoulders. “Impress anyone with your tales of heroism in the woods?”

“I have no tales of heroism,” Keith mutters, and Matt clicks his teeth, shakes Keith again.

“You’re allowed to say that you tore down a good handful of Galra soldiers single handedly,” Matt says dropping himself into a part conspiratory and mostly drunk voice. “Not often we come across demons like you who fight as well as they f-”

“I was turned,” Keith cuts him off with a warning, and Matt just beams goofily in return. “I was a human before. That’s where I had learned how to fight.”

“I know,” Matt replies, tipping his chin towards where Shiro’s standing and still talking and still not dragging Keith into the tent. “He told us after we cleared the campground.”

Keith doesn’t know what to say to that, so he takes a sip of his own tankard. When Matt doesn’t leave him alone, Keith searches for something that will hopefully make him go away. Experience has told him that expressing emotions to near-strangers is a great way to get them to leave, so he heaves a sigh.

“I can’t have good tales of heroism,” he says in what he hopes is a grave tone and not one that one that lets on the fact that he’s itching for the man’s leader. “I got knocked out so fast. The quintessence only took me so far.”

“Yes, my dear,” Matt replies before taking another large gulp of the mead. “But the fury that your unconsciousness inspired took our good sir the rest of the way.”

“What do you mean?” Keith asks, and Matt shakes his head.

” It was extremely barbaric in an oddly fascinating way,” he says, and then taps the side of his nose. “But I'm under strict orders not to say. He's oddly protective over you. Thought you'd get lost on the way back from town so he left his own party.”

Keith stares at Matt for a second, who stares back with equal determination but significantly less focus. Keith narrows his eyes, and Matt is too drunk to be intimidated by him so he grins wide in return.

“So did you feed?” he asks, leaning in close enough that Keith can smell the wine on his breath. “Tell me, were the pickings good?”

“Why, are you interested?” Keith raises an eyebrow, and Matt throws his head back in a loud and braying laugh. Keith shrugs him off, and passes Matt his tankard before he gets up.

Keith finds himself drifting towards Shiro, who's still occupied and looks like he has no plans to change. Another two hanger-ons have joined his group and Shiro looks good here, surrounded by people who are clearly enraptured by him.

Keith knows Shiro's promised, and that Shiro is a man who will stay true to his word. But his urgency has reached a boiling point that it's never been at before. He doesn't want to inflict it on Shiro, even though by now Shiro more than well knows the amount of desperation he has. Shiro is doing him a favour, but he has his own duties to attend to. He can see why Shiro gave him quintessence — it's his way of keeping everyone happy. But Keith needs more, and now that he's had the barest brush of Shiro's touch he needs more. And if not from him, if he's too busy, Keith will need to find _someone_ before his head melts.

There's a temptation to slip out of the camp unnoticed, to go feed and come back before anyone is the wiser. There's also a need for Keith to get Shiro's permission before he leaves again, but Keith's not ready to beg for it in front of strangers, in front of anyone but Shiro. Keith takes one more glance at him, watches him laugh in the firelight and decides to turn around.

If Keith rides hard, it won't take him long to reach town again. He can find that man, the one who looks enough like Shiro that Keith can crawl on top and pretend just enough to make it good for both of them. He's not got the wiles that his fellow clan members have tried so hard to teach him, but he's willing to do anything it takes just to find some relief.

He doesn't realize that Shiro's caught him out the corner of his eye till he's picked up his saddle and has started to approach the trough to where his horse is tied to. Keith feels someone grab his elbow, and he immediately whips around on the defensive. Shiro raises his hands in a placating manner, and jerks his chin towards the saddle Keith's holding.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and Keith swallows and shifts on his feet.

“You looked busy,” he says in lieu of a proper response, and Shiro looks at him for a moment before two other members of the camp call out his name. They're approaching the two of them, and Keith casts a glance back at his horse, who's blowing bubbles in the trough. “I should go.”

“Was the quintessence not enough to tide you over?” Shiro asks and for a brief flashing moment, he appears a lot younger, a lot more like the young knight Keith had known to perpetually try and please everyone. Keith knows Shiro hasn't meant any actual ill, has probably thought the celebration would be a great way to integrate Keith into the camp even though Keith has yet to give him an actual answer as to whether he's staying. But one fact still remains, glaringly clear— Keith needs to feed.

“I don't want to keep you,” Keith says, nodding towards the people approaching Shiro. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Planning to run off again, sire?” One of them calls out as they draws closer. Keith turns and starts to move towards his horse again, glancing back once to see Shiro stand and stare at him. Keith gives him a forlorn look, and turns back towards where his horse is standing. She nickers as he approaches him, shoves her velvet nose against his neck, and he blows gently into her nose in greeting. He drops the saddle onto a nearby post so that he can scratch her neck, murmuring low apologies to her for dragging her out again.

He's about to untie her when someone calls out his name. Keith turns his head to see Shiro walking towards him in determination. His cloak billows around him like a dark cloud and before Keith can speak, he's being grabbed by an arm and dragged towards the outskirts of the camp. His feet keep up with Shiro but his brain does not, not till he finds himself pinned against a tree in the dark, the only light there from the large fire behind them. It illuminates some of the trees beside them but otherwise, they are surrounded by the night.

“I will worry about you,” Shiro says, and he’s got a hand on Keith’s shoulder, pinning him against the bark. Keith doesn’t try to break the hold. He welcomes it, welcomes the contact, wants Shiro to come closer but also wants Shiro to let go so that Keith can put an end to his own dizziness. “Was the quintessence not enough?”

Keith grabs onto one of Shiro’s wrists, and feels Shiro lift his hand off his shoulder. Keith holds him down and starts to shift it, enough that Shiro’s hand starts to skim over the side of his neck instead. It’s a crude way of showing his greed, but Keith needs to anchor himself before he speaks in one way or another.

“I understand the importance of paying attention to your people. I understand the importance of this night,” Keith says, voice a near rasp. It’s the only way he can speak without it shaking, with Shiro in such close proximity to him. Even here, Shiro has such command that it’s incapacitating. “You deserve it, but I can’t— with the quintessence I can’t—”

It’s proving extremely difficult to voice, especially under the potency of Shiro’s gaze. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and Shiro moves in closer till Keith can feel the warmth of his words as he speaks.

“It didn’t help,” Shiro states more than asks, and the hand Keith moved cups his jaw. He tilts it, and runs a leather-clad thumb across the tattooed marks on Keith’s neck. “The quintessence didn’t help, and I wasn’t there. You were going to go back to find someone else.”

“It’s not your fault,” Keith manages to say, but his body’s already leaning into the touch, eager for whatever little Shiro will give him. “It’s not your fault I’m like this.”

“Do you still want it from me?” Shiro presses his finger over the small tattoo that denotes Keith’s clan, and Keith gulps against it. “You have to tell me, Keith. Do you want me to take you back to my tent?”

“I— No, Shiro, I don’t want to ruin—” He starts, but cuts off when Shiro leans in.

“Ruin my night? Would you like me to have you right here then?” Shiro says, guttural in Keith’s ear and Keith can feel the rise and fall of Shiro’s broad chest in close proximity to his. “Or would you prefer that we rejoin the celebrations and I take you in front of the entire camp? I’d rather that than you go back and try to bed men who aren’t even a third of what you deserve.”

It’s not unkind. The first sounds more than agreeable to Keith, but it's the thought of the second that weakens him, the thought of clambering on top of Shiro in the middle of the camp ground while everyone else watches. It's a thing creatures like him do to stake more permanent claims, and the idea of carrying out something so ritualistic with Shiro overwhelms Keith with the urge to have him now. It picks at and unravels the last, frayed thread of self control Keith’s been desperately holding on to, and then grasps it in both hands and audibly snaps it.

“Right here,” Keith whispers, and Shiro immediately jerks back. Keith uses the space given to start to sink down to the ground, trying to reach for Shiro.

Shiro catches him by the throat before his knees hit the ground, and pushes his hand up till part of it is cupping Keith’s jaw. He starts to lift and Keith immediately lets go of his trousers, feeling the pinpricks of Shiro’s claws through his gloves as he grips Keith tight. Keith chokes at the sudden restriction, and feels himself get dragged up, the bark of the tree rough and grating against his back. Shiro’s hold eases up but he does not let go as he brings Keith face to face with him. Keith feels more than sees Shiro’s sharp gaze, hears him exhale sharply and feels heat radiate from him like a fire.

“Not like this, not here,” Shiro says, and Keith squirms under the touch, too high strung to register the warning in Shiro’s voice. “Look at you. You really cannot wait any longer?”

Keith opens his mouth to speak, but it becomes quickly clear that Shiro does not want an answer because a moment later, a muscular thigh gets wedged between Keith’s legs. He lets go of Keith’s neck and Keith takes the moment to take a deep breath that he loses immediately as large hands grab his hips and roll him forward. Shiro drags Keith up his thigh just enough for Keith’s body to contract at the heat of the touch.

“Oh,” Keith says, and Shiro repeats the move once, twice. “Oh, _oh_.”

On the third time, Keith wraps a hand around Shiro’s forearm. Keith groans, scrunches his eyes shut as his hips twitch forward. He digs his fingers into a metal vambrace and when Shiro brings him up in a particularly rough drag, Keith’s other hand immediately slaps onto Shiro’s shoulder. Everything around him starts to fall away in favour of focusing on Shiro’s touch and the way his strong grip moves Keith like he’s nothing.

“Look at me,” Shiro orders and Keith obeys immediately. Shiro shifts his leg up further till Keith’s starting to rock onto the balls of his feet, and he opens his eyes to a man that makes him feel like he’s cornered prey. “I’m sorry I made you wait. I should have taken care of you first.”

“Shiro,” Keith gasps, surprised at the statement and unable to form a coherent thought. Shiro presses forward, presses closer, burying his face in Keith’s neck. His body imprints a solid line against Keith and Keith’s heart threatens to give out when they slot together. Shiro is starting to get hard against him— that itself is intense in a fiery way, but what follows it is even more unparalleled.

It’s the reciprocated desire that starts to seep into Keith, starts to wrap itself around his insides and twist. He hasn’t felt it like this, _ever,_ and Keith’s body shudders hard with the want of it. It makes him brave enough to use his hands on Shiro as an anchor as he rolls forward in earnest, grinding them together through the thick cloth. Shiro’s interest becomes more and more evident and whatever self-control the quintessence allowed Keith to have is turned quickly into dust.

“I’ll feed you,” It’s a command that’s wet over the skin of Keith’s neck and it sends tell-tale fire down to his core. It’s the scent of food, it’s the scent of a meal just out of reach and Keith knows now that he needs more, he needs it all and he needs it from Shiro. “I’ll fill you up, sweetheart. Let me take you.”

“Please,” Keith begs, and Shiro continues to move them together till Keith’s vision is blurring, watering with how overwhelmed he is. His stomach tightens, and his legs start to tremble.

Keith feels the skim of sharp teeth over his skin and before he can help it, he’s coming, pinned against a tree as music continues to float into the woods. Shiro keeps rocking up against him, drops his hands to Keith’s thighs so he can part them just enough for him to get more room to grind against him.

And then Shiro joins him too, with a guttural sound and his hands squeezing bruises into Keith’s skin. The surge of energy that runs through Keith as Shiro comes is _delicious._ Keith inhales sharply as the power courses through him, power he hasn’t felt in too long. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he’s getting fed. His body grabs at it hungrily, devours it and demands more.

Shiro has yet to let go of him— they’re still pinned against the tree, chests heaving against each other. Keith tries to calm down, catch his breath, appreciate the high he’s found. Shiro draws back after a few moments, and Keith stares at him with bright eyes. He can feel energy thrumming through his fingertips, and he can’t bring himself to let go quite yet. Shiro doesn’t push away either, just brings his hand up to push some of Keith’s hair back.

“More?” Shiro asks, and Keith stares for a moment before nodding furiously. As if there could be any other answer.

* * *

 

Shiro pulls them towards his tent with a narrowed focus that others pick up on and make way for quickly.

Despite his whole body feeling like it’s been revived, his senses snapping back into place in a way the quintessence couldn’t do, Keith feels no shame or reticence being pulled by the elbow past the campfire and towards Shiro’s tent. A few people look, and one drunkenly tries to beckon his lord over but Shiro pays them no attention as they move. Keith gets herded into the tent and hears Shiro give strict orders to someone to spread the word that no one is allowed to bother him for the rest of the night.

Keith lights a single lamp, kicks off his boots, and turns on his heel just as Shiro enters the tent. He watches as Shiro unhooks his cloak, letting the thick black fabric fall to the ground and starts to follow suit, shucking off his leathers and pulls at the hem of his own shirt. As soon as he brings it over his head, Shiro closes the distance between them, laying gloved hands on Keith’s bare waist. The lamp dimly lights the tent, lending heat to the way Shiro looks at him and it makes Keith go cross-eyed as Shiro leans in.

“What do you want?” Shiro asks, so close that Keith can feel the ghost of his words over his lips as Shiro’s barely brushes them.

“Anything,” Keith says and in a final act of courage, he surges forward.

Shiro catches him easily in the kiss, and the heat of it immediately starts spreading through Keith’s body. A mix of disbelief and desire rings through Keith like a bell as he feels the press of Shiro’s lips against his, but Keith tries to ignore it in favour of focusing on kissing Shiro.

It’s one of the few things that he’s good at, and Keith tilts his head at just the right angle so that they’re both led into deepening it. Shiro tugs gently on Keith’s braid, parting his mouth to lick Keith’s bottom lip and Keith seizes the invitation immediately. He lets Shiro move his lips against him and pull him even closer, and waits for Shiro to let out a satisfied hum and before he starts to slide his tongue in.

Shiro groans as the kiss turns filthy, and immediately drops his hands to grab at the back of Keith’s thighs. Without breaking the kiss, Shiro hauls Keith up into the air, one hand supportive under him while the other runs of the length of his spine. Keith immediately wraps his legs around Shiro, and shivers at the feeling of leather against his skin. He brings up his hands to cup Shiro’s face and guide the kiss, and Shiro spins them around and starts marching them towards the bed. He hovers there for a moment, and Keith breaks the kiss to look down at Shiro. His heart threatens to beat out of its cage, and he’s feeling the effects of desire unfurl within him but he still finds the wherewithal to ask Shiro a question that has been tugging at him.

“Why did you follow me into town?” Keith asks, running a thumb over Shiro’s lip. Shiro looks at him for a moment before he grunts and Keith’s support falls out from under him. He finds himself getting thrown onto Shiro’s bed, back hitting the soft furs and sinking into the mattress.

From here, he can see the mark under Shiro’s skin, the mark that catalogs an intimidating reputation. Keith licks his lips nervously, the act belying the way the fear the mark inspires just makes his arousal stronger. Shiro slowly unbuckles his vambraces and and drops them to his side, and Keith sits up to attention as Shiro lights another lamp. He shuffles himself closer to the edge of the bed, parts his legs immediately as Shiro steps forward into his space. He looms over him as he starts to pull off his gloves and the sight is so enticing that Keith can’t help but lean forward and mouth over cloth of Shiro’s trousers, bringing a thumb up to hook through the waistband.

“You want it like that?” Shiro asks, and Keith nods. He wants whatever Shiro wants to give him, wants to draw out whatever he can even with his little entrancement skills. Shiro pulls his own shirt off, and then he’s bare chested, scars criss-crossing across his body. He brings his left hand to card through Keith’s hair again, scratching circles through Keith’s scalp. “Take it then.”

Keith doesn't wait for any further direction. He makes quick work of pushing down everything just enough to free Shiro and take him in hand. He's thick and heavy and when Keith gives him a tentative stroke, his fingers tighten in Keith's hair. Keith peers up at him as he touches him and Shiro nods as he catches his eye. Keith squeezes and at the appreciative grunt, leans forward.

He’s not the most skilled in bed, but Keith knows he can at least use his mouth in a mildly pleasing manner. He knows that a few well placed, tentative kisses to the tip will have Shiro unconsciously pushing forward, trying to move past Keith’s wet bottom lip. Keith opens his mouth in invitation, grips the rough material of Shiro’s trousers, but Shiro doesn’t take the it despite being fully hard. His head is swimming with too much lust for his nervousness to pinch him, so Keith goes ahead and pushes forward, taking Shiro partway into his mouth and covering the rest with his hand.

Shiro is big. Keith knows that, has known that for a while because of a lack of shame between the knights in his old life. Feeling it more than seeing it is a different experience, and Keith closes his eyes as he swirls his tongue, mixing saliva and salt. He’s glad that they got off in the woods because even as he initially runs his tongue to the sound of Shiro groaning his name, there’s enough desire feeding Keith that it would make a weaker version of him crumple.

Keith withdraws, runs his lips up the length and strokes again as he looks up at Shiro. He’s still not quite sure what he has done to deserve this stroke of luck, not quite sure how far it’ll go but he plans to take advantage of it as much as he can. Shiro’s grip on his hair eases up and Keith can sense that Shiro’s on the cusp of a question. He can’t guess what, doesn’t know if he wants to, so Keith traces teasing circles with his tongue, takes one last glimpse at Shiro and then sinks down to the hilt.

Keith stays there for a moment, inhales deeply through his nose and hollows his cheeks quickly, eyes going half-lidded just as Shiro’s widens. Lust rolls off Shiro in giant waves, and Keith feels himself purr low in his throat as he scrabbles to get a hold onto Shiro’s hips, thumbs running over the grooves and pushing his trousers down further. He pulls off again, slow and wet, and this time pulls Shiro’s hips forward to get him fully in his mouth again before pushing them away.

Shiro picks up the hint because he rolls his hips forward, gentle and leisurely into Keith’s waiting mouth. Keith lets out a pleased hum, and Shiro repeats the move again and again, till he’s moving in Keith’s mouth at a steady pace. Keith switches between letting him push in till he’s fully seated and not allowing him to go any further than the head at others, building up the frustration and anticipation in Shiro.

It’s slightly clumsy but Keith can’t bring himself to care because for the first time in an eternity, he feels wanted in the way that creatures like him need to survive.

Keith sinks into the taste, enjoys the way Shiro lets out noises as they move in tandem with each other. Keith gets over-eager on one stroke and accidentally chokes as he goes down too fast on Shiro. It makes Keith feel a way he’s never felt before, and when Shiro stills in concern, Keith lets out a moan to let him know that it’s a thing he likes. He feels the fingers in his hair curl and start to pull, and Keith lets out a gasp when Shiro fully pulls him off.

“More,” he says, _demands_ in a rasping voice. “Shiro—”

Keith’s mouth is occupied again, and this time Shiro gives him no time to adjust before he pushes in with one swift slide. Keith makes a noise around it, and it’s apparently what Shiro needed to give Keith’s throat the bruising it deserves. He snaps his hips into Keith’s mouth hard enough that Keith’s hands drop from his hips, all while murmuring praises to Keith. Keith is so concentrated on swallowing around the way Shiro feels in him that he barely notices when Shiro eventually holds onto him firm enough to keep his head still while he fucks his mouth.

“Keith,” Shiro says his name and Keith melts at the word and how rough it sounds coming out of Shiro’s mouth. “Oh, sweetheart—”

Keith can feel the corner of his eyes start to grow wet, tears dampening his lashes as his jaw aches with the use. For the first time in a long time, Keith truly feels like this is what he was made for. He thinks of Shiro moving like this against him, in him while Keith is sprawled over the furs or by the fire in front of everyone, hard and measured and with a controlled roughness.

Keith makes a sound at the thought, one that’s drawn out from him again and again as he swallows Shiro down. He feels Shiro tremble under his fingers and braces himself, inhaling deeply.

But he finds himself getting pulled off abruptly, and he immediately tries to take Shiro in his mouth again. The hand in his hair slides down to his braid and pulls, far enough that his neck starts to bend back as he's forced to look up. The light of the lamp is dull but it’s enough to see the flush that's reached his impressively broad chest. Keith licks his lips in hopes of enticing him, but Shiro releases his hair completely. Keith’s about to complain, but Shiro props his knee up on the edge of the bed between Keith’s legs and leans down.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, pushing Keith down by his shoulders, and grabbing his hips. “I didn’t mean to be impetuous.”

“What-” Keith starts, confused, but Shiro swoops him up again in a kiss as he shoves Keith up the bed. The fur bristles against him as he shifts and Shiro rolls forward, slotting his hips between Keith’s legs as he soothes his tongue past the seam of Keith’s mouth. Keith’s legs fall to the side, making more room for Shiro.

Shiro breaks off the kiss and presses his lips against Keith’s chin before he leaves a trail of kisses on the underside of his jaw, stopping right above where their shared old house’s mark is tattooed onto Keith’s neck. His tattoos don't show unless he loses his glamour, but Keith wouldn't be surprised if it's started to slip. Shiro's left hand skims along Keith’s ribs while his right hand curls black claws into a fist beside Keith’s head.

“I told you I’d take care of you,” Shiro says, his breath tickling against Keith’s neck before he dives in, sucking onto the mark. Keith’s hips involuntarily twitch at the action and Shiro presses down with his own, causing Keith to arch up into Shiro. He swears, reaches for the longer strands of Shiro’s hair and twines his fingers through it.

“You don’t need to,” he manages to get out, losing his breath as Shiro ruts against him and his mouth’s leaving what’s sure to be a bruise that Keith can’t hide. “You- _ah_ , I just need to take care of you. You don’t need to do anything Shiro, let me-”

“As I said,” Shiro says, raising his head to look at Keith. Keith sees the glint of his sharp teeth as he speaks, and his breath hitches. “What kind of man would I be if I don’t make sure my best fighter _properly_ feeds?”

Shiro says it with such authority that it winds Keith, and he’s helpless to Shiro dropping down to kiss him again as he starts to pull at Keith’s trousers.

“Tell me what you want,” Shiro says, yanking the cloth off. “And let me give it to you.”

This time when he brings them together and grinds against Keith, the sensation isn’t buried between fabric. The slide of skin against skin has Keith choking out a cry and he finds one of his legs immediately wrapping around Shiro’s hips, digging his heel into a thigh to urge Shiro to keep going.

Keith could come like this. They both could. Keith is painfully hard and extremely close, and he can feel the power coiling within Shiro and waiting to spring forward. But— Shiro’s looking down at him with an unparalleled desire that Keith had never thought he’d ever be the one receiving. Keith has had a need for Shiro, both emotional and primal, since long before and despite that all that’s happened, he’s found himself under Shiro, pliant on a fur-covered bed. Shiro is hard and wanting against him, _for_ him, and Keith gulps.

He hooks an arm around Shiro’s neck and tugs. Shiro follows till Keith can lean up and voice his request, quiet but desperate. Shiro pushes back up, hovers above Keith in silence for too long a moment.

Keith's about to tell him that it's okay, that to never mind, but Shiro gets a familiar dark and intoxicating expression on his face. Suddenly Keith finds his arm wrenched off and his hands planted above his head, wrists trapped under Shiro’s clawed hand.

“Were you planning to do that with the men you were looking at?” Shiro asks roughly, and Keith can feel himself drip onto his own stomach with how hard he wants. “Were you going to let them have you like that?”

“Only you,” Keith replies truthfully, toes curling at the possessive nature of Shiro’s voice. “You’re the only one that can have me like that.”

Keith anticipates the hard and bruising kiss that follows, but it still doesn’t fail to take his breath away. There’s a bite to it that Keith revels in, and when Shiro pulls back he is significantly more disheveled. Pleasure purrs through Keith at the sight of Shiro like this, enough so that he doesn’t make any pithy sounds when Shiro pushes off of him and slides off the bed.

He returns moments later, small tin in hand and pushing off his own trousers till he clambers onto the bed completely naked. Keith props himself up on his elbows to rake his eyes over Shiro’s battle-honed body. Even before, Keith had thought Shiro had been striking; now, with a body built for brutal fighting, a blackened arm, white hair and a story of marked skin across his body, Shiro looks like a deity. In the centre of his torso, there’s a red circle-shaped scar that Keith hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Getting impaled didn’t kill you,” Keith says, staring at the scar. “How fast did you heal?”

“Almost immediately,” Shiro says, parting Keith’s legs further and settling in between them. Keith watches as he pops open the lid, and dips his fingers in the salve. “Barely felt it.”

“What are you?” Keith asks, and Shiro shoots him half a grin. He circles his right hand around Keith’s inner thigh, and the gentle scrape of claws against sensitive skin sends a thrill up Keith’s spine.

“I’m kind of like you,” Shiro says, and Keith’s about to ask him what he means but he quickly forgets his question when he feels the blunt press of Shiro’s human finger.

Keith is laid bare in a way he’s never been before, in a way he never has and never will do for anyone else. He plants his feet into the mattress, into the furs, and tries to rock on to Shiro’s fingers as he opens Keith up, adding one every time Keith becomes slick and easy.

By the time he has three in Keith, working him open with a dangerous smile, Keith thinks he’s ready to disintegrate. He’s not even aware of where he is with his feeding. He must be more than satiated and then some, but Keith’s gluttonous and hasn’t fed in too long and Shiro is amenable and crooking his fingers and searching till Keith arches hard off the bed. Keith tries to stuff his knuckles into his mouth but Shiro wrenches his hand away.

“Is it good, darling?” Shiro asks with the confidence of a man who knows it is, with the way Keith’s falling apart under him. Keith moans in a response anyways, rolls his hips down. The only thing preventing him from coming is the knowledge that this isn’t where they end. “Think you can take me now?”

“I can always take you,” Keith says, voice broken. It’s insistent, but Keith catches the accidental challenge in it after the words spill out. Shiro withdraws his hands and this time, Keith _does_ make a pitiful sound at it. A hand slides under his lower back and pushes and Keith goes obediently, allowing himself to be flipped onto his stomach.

“You should have asked me to help you earlier,” Shiro says from above him as he manhandles Keith onto his knees. Keith raises up onto his hands as well but feels a hand press between his shoulder blades till he’s down on his elbows, arched up and waiting and pliant.

Keith feels Shiro's presence as he leans down and presses a series of wet kisses to the nape of Keith's neck before working his way to the corner of his jaw. He bites Keith's earlobe just as he presses in slick, making Keith keen as he murmurs a low, “I could have kept you fed and full from the first day you came here.”

Shiro takes his time, pushing in at a torturously slow pace. Keith tries to breathe through it, less because of the pain and more because he's _never_ felt vitality like this. Whatever Shiro is, he has more power than Keith has ever felt, in this way and in all other ways. It makes his eyes water and his mouth hang open as he pants and his body accommodates to Shiro.

Shiro sits back on his haunches for more control and rocks forward, withdraws, and Keith can tell he's still being careful. Keith voices a quiet “ _more_ ” but Shiro tells him no, tells him that he's going to take his time and make sure it's good for Keith. Keith doesn't want him to because it's already so good, because Keith can more than take it, it's what he was turned into—

“Your glamour is slipping,” Shiro says, stills, and Keith quickly reaches the limit of his patience.

He pushes back, past the anchor of Shiro's hands on his hips. In one swift move, he's fully seated and the suddenness of the action has Shiro grasping him so hard that he thinks he feels his claws pierce the skin. Keith squirms and raises off slowly, before nudging back down, holding back a cry at the feeling.

Shiro meets him this time, rolling his hips in tandem, and Keith hisses at it. Keith can see the skin around his wrists fade purple, and there’s a dull throbbing pain in his nailbeds as they turn sharper and longer. He tries to will it back to a more human appearance, but his mind is more preoccupied by the way that Shiro moves in him.

Keith grinds back against him and rocks himself as much as he can, trying to encourage Shiro to go faster. Shiro still works him at a maddeningly slow pace, and on one particular hard thrust back, Keith finds himself at the receiving end of Shiro's strength as his hips are tempered and he's forced to slow down. It's difficult for Keith to keep his senses and not turn into a supplicating mess because Shiro is so wet, so big in him and everything in his body is screaming at him to take advantage of it and plead Shiro to take advantage of him.

“Shiro,” Keith says, and Shiro responds with a particularly hard snap of his hips. Keith can tell what Shiro likes, and takes an incoherent leap at it. “Please—”

“Please what, sweetheart?” The way Shiro says it sounds like he already knows that there’s a specific way Keith wants to be taken apart.

And Keith doesn’t doubt that Shiro does— he’s always been perceptive. Keith’s normally loathe to beg but Shiro’s already pulled it out from him multiple times, and each time has had Keith feeling weaker and weaker. He’s got a comfort with Shiro he wouldn’t have found anywhere else, so Keith looks over his shoulder once to make eye contact with Shiro before dropping his head down.

“You’re the only that can have me like this,” Keith manages, finding a thin middle ground in between demanding and deferential as he echoes his words from before. “So use me how you really want to, sire.”

Keith half-knows that it’s a gamble. Shiro might just tell him that taking him slow and hard is exactly how he wants to use Keith, so Keith lets the ‘ _sire_ ’ roll off his tongue like honey, sweet and husky and as enticing as he can be.

A calloused palm skims up the length of Keith’s spine, sharp claws making themselves known as fingers find and wrap themselves around Keith’s neck. And then Keith knows his plea worked, because he’s getting pushed down into the mattress until his arms collapse. He turns his head and tries to see over his shoulder, but the hand pushes him down again, anchoring him to the bed.

“You want to be used?” Shiro asks, and Keith tries to nod under his hold and make an affirmative noise. Shiro withdraws, almost all the way out, and for a quick, panicked moment, Keith thinks he’s going to leave completely.

But then, keeping Keith’s head pinned, Shiro slams back into him with enough force to send the furs underneath them shifting. Keith lets out a yelp and gratification tears through him like wildfire as Shiro finally unleashes on Keith. Shiro’s hips snap forward hard enough that he’s bruising the back of Keith’s thighs and leaving Keith breathless. Keith doesn’t think he can give more, until Shiro angles himself in a way that punches out a guttural noise from Keith.

Loud sounds spill from Keith’s mouth and he can’t turn his head to muffle them because Shiro’s still got him held down as he fucks him at a savage pace. Keith’s head swims as his world narrows down to how large and demanding Shiro feels in him. He’s being taken apart at the seams, being filled to the brink with white-hot desire that threatens to consume him.

“No one else will fuck you like this,” Shiro says, voice harsh and covetous as he moves in him with a ferocity unlike any other. “No one else _can_ fuck you like this.”

Keith moans in agreement, because he’s never, _ever_ burned for anyone like this before no matter how much hunger clawed at him. Keith tries to say something of this effect, but his words keep breaking down into whines and groans into the furs underneath him. Sweat beads at his temple and dampens his hair, and Keith’s running out of breath as Shiro thoroughly devours him

Suddenly, the pressure on his head vanishes. Keith takes one deep inhale and feels Shiro wrap his braid around his hand and yank. Shiro’s raising him up onto his knees and sitting them both back till Keith’s practically on Shiro’s lap. Keith feels Shiro’s chest against his back, solid and covered in sweat, radiating heat and he tips his head back over Shiro’s shoulders. Shiro lets go of Keith’s hair in favour of circling his neck and squeezing, not enough to cut off Keith’s breath but just enough for Keith to know that in this moment, Shiro owns him completely.

Shiro bars Keith’s chest with a big forearm and thrusts up into him at a devastating pace that has Keith chanting his name like a prayer. Keith tries to hold onto his arm with both hands and sees that his own have grown completely purple, that his chest is mottled with the colour and his claws have come out. Shiro runs sharp teeth over the corded muscle of Keith’s shoulder and bites down in time with a hard thrust, and Keith quickly forgets about himself.

“Feel used enough yet?” Shiro runs a soothing tongue over the mark he’s left, and Keith turns his head towards Shiro.

Shiro immediately captures his lips in a wet kiss that’s as addictive as the way he drags in and out of Keith. Shiro lets one satisfied sound out into the kiss after another, and Keith pants into his mouth as he’s broken apart repeatedly. He cups Keith’s jaw and guides the kiss, pressure and power sinking through his fingertips into Keith’s skin.

With his free hand, Shiro tilts Keith’s hips just enough that the next thrust has Keith gasping against him. It's all tongue and clashing teeth and for a moment Keith thinks he tastes iron between them, but Shiro reaches between them and wraps a hand around Keith and then suddenly, Keith can't think anymore.

Shiro tugs at him fast and hard, twisting his wrist enough that the corners of Keith’s vision start to blur. Keith can barely breathe, mouth still occupied by an ardent kiss that lays a claim on him. He can feel the hot wet prick of tears in the corners of his eyes and he tries to tell Shiro that he’s close, that he’s on the edge, that Shiro needs to follow him over, but Shiro is relentless in the way he works Keith. All Keith can do is take it and be used like he asked for, like he begged for, till there’s nothing left of him.

Keith comes with a loud cry that Shiro swallows up, his entire body pulled under by a merciless tide. His eyes scrunch shut of their own accord, his head going weightless for a moment as the sensation threatens to swallow him whole. Shiro continues to stroke Keith through it, till Keith’s thighs are trembling against him and he’s whimpering into his mouth, clinging onto Shiro where he can.

Shiro holds Keith against him as he continues to thrust into his increasingly pliant body without easing up. Keith tries to help and rock back on Shiro as much as he can, the oversensitivity shooting sparks through his body. Shiro lets go of his torso and grabs onto his hips, anchoring him as Keith falls forward and lets Shiro fuck into his finish. Shiro lets out a low moan shaped around Keith’s name as he comes, hips stuttering in him as they gradually slow to a halt.

“Fuck,” Shiro swears, his breath coming out ragged as he finally lets go of Keith’s face. “God, Keith.”

Keith can’t parse the tone of the words, but the press of lips against his neck before Shiro starts to slip out of him assures him. The discomfort of it is muted by the waves of pleasure still rolling through Keith, and he thinks he’s lost any sense of cogent thought. He’s full in every sense of the way, and feels satiated in a manner he didn’t think was possible to know.

Shiro pushes the spoiled furs away, gently manhandling Keith into laying down on the sheets. Keith goes with no effort, welcoming the soft give of the mattress. His entire body volleys between aching from the act and thrumming with the new found energy. He’s definitely going to have to siphon some for safekeeping later, because it’s on the verge of _too_ much right now. When Shiro shifts off the bed, it takes everything in Keith not to try and reach for him and make him stay.

His heart hammers as he stares at the ceiling of the tent. If it wasn’t for the settling soreness, Keith would have to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He inhales deeply, trying to regain some semblance of a steady breath. Keith shifts his legs and tries to sit up, but Shiro returns, eclipsing his view.

Shiro drags a cool and wet cloth over Keith’s stomach, and Keith can smell the rosehip on it. Shiro gently pushes at his legs, and Keith obediently parts them, closing his eyes when he feels the cloth between his legs, wiping away at the mess they made. Shiro’s eyes drift between them as he cleans Keith, seemingly transfixed by the sight and Keith starts to squirm under the attention.

“Does it hurt?” Shiro asks, and Keith shakes his head. His body can take a lot more than a human can, and while it still aches, it'll take a significantly lesser amount of time for it to bounce back. As it is, the sight of Shiro naked and kneeling over him stirs Keith, but it's a lot easier to hold his desire down now that he's had Shiro. It doesn't change the fact that his heart stutters when Shiro drops the cloth off to the side and leans down.

Shiro looks at him with bright eyes and a flushed expression, chest heaving. Keith thinks about Shiro taking him like this, face to face so that Keith can see him as he comes. Keith goes dizzy at the possibility of having this again just as Shiro leans down, this time tentative as he kisses Keith deeply. It’s soft and calming and not asking for anything more, and Keith reaches up to cup his jaw.

Shiro manoeuvres them without breaking the kiss till he's on his back and he's pulling Keith on top of him. Keith's keenly aware of the way that their sticky bodies slide together, of the wetness that's still trickling between his legs. His senses are sharp like a blade, and the underlying nausea he had gotten so used to has vanished. Everything is surprisingly gentle, heat radiating between them as they share the languid kiss.

“You can let go of your glamour completely if you want,” Shiro murmurs against Keith’s lips, not waiting for an answer to kiss him again. Shiro unties Keith’s braid and cards his fingers through his hair, undoing it as Keith lets the last of his glamour fall away. It hadn’t done the best job staying put anyways.

“Do you have one?” Keith asks, breaking apart the kiss to look down at Shiro. Shiro shakes his head, runs his clawed hand up Keith’s thigh.

“Can’t hide this as well as I’d like to,” Shiro says, tracing light circles over Keith’s skin. Keith can feel fresh bruises and the sting of where the claws left indents, and it sends a soft shudder through him. “Can’t hide it at all, actually.”

“Why not?” Keith asks, and for a moment it seems like Shiro’s not going to give him an answer. Shiro presses his lips together and his eyes go steely, but it softens as fast as it happened.

“They love violence in the Galra kingdom,” Shiro says quietly. “They turned me into a violent creature and didn’t want me to forget it. This arm is proof of that.”

His hand stops skimming over Keith, and he lets it fall to the side. Keith’s unsure of what the proper response is, so he reaches down to pluck the hand up from where it’s fallen listless besides Shiro. He presses his palm against it and admires the size, admires how lethal it is yet how it had been able to treat him the way that it did. Shiro gives a small smile at the action and curls his fingers, trapping Keith’s hand. Keith doesn’t want to change the topic completely, but he doesn’t want Shiro to reopen an old wound, so he tries for something slightly different as he twines his fingers through the spaces between Shiro’s. “What did you mean?”

“The way you were turned into a demon that feeds on lust and desire, I was turned into one that feeds on violence,” this answer comes easily, like Shiro’s rehearsed it many times. Keith supposes that he has, has gotten the idea that Shiro’s long accepted what he is. “That’s why I lived after getting impaled. It only made me more powerful. I feed every time I attack or get attacked.”

“Is that why you have the reputation you do?” Keith asks, and Shiro snorts and looks away. It’s undignified, and Shiro licks his lips like he’s almost unsure of what to say. Keith can’t call him embarrassed, can’t call him reticent. Shiro has been noble but never one to brag about it, and Keith thinks he might have touched a light nerve which Shiro doesn’t quite know how to respond to.

“Amongst other things,” Shiro finally replies, still not looking at Keith. “There’s never a lack of violence in the world. It took me some time to learn how to channel that power for something half-good, but the fact still stands that I forge life out of pain.”

“It’s not your fault,” Keith says immediately, picking up on Shiro’s discomfort. It’s the last thing he wants him to feel. “We can’t help where fate drags us.”

“Especially not if it drags your old friend to the foot of your camp,” Shiro turns his head back to Keith, and reaches to push hair off his forehead. “It has it’s good parts.”

Keith feels his cheeks heat at that, and he ducks his head. He weighs his options in a split second, and decides to go with the truth.

“That was an oracle’s doing,” Keith says, and Shiro raises an eyebrow. “They told me to find— I didn’t know it was _you_ at first, they just gave me your title on the battlefield. I thought I was getting sent to my death until I saw that it was you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Shiro asks, but it does not sound hurt or annoyed. It’s curious and understanding. “I could have helped you instead of you starving and living off quintessence for days.”

“You’re my friend,” Keith replies honestly. “You were kind to me and I didn’t want to take advantage of you. I didn’t know you weren’t human either. They leave that part out of the tales.”

“Most who see up close tend not to live to tell them,” Shiro says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “And I suppose the oracles are not as all-knowing as they presume to be. I haven’t really heard of one that is.”

“This one did lead me to you though,” Keith points out and can’t help but grin down at Shiro. “And I’m no longer starving. Though I think the glory of that belongs squarely to you, sire.”

“It most definitely does,” Shiro says, before yanking Keith down for another kiss. This one is headier, with whispers of the same intoxication that had thrummed between the two of them earlier. Keith knows the answer to his earlier questions now— having had Shiro has barely quelled his desire. It’s only made it easier to control. Keith’s stirring again, and he can tell from the way that Shiro shifts underneath him that he is too.

“I take it you're still hungry” Shiro comments in between the increasingly heated kisses.

“I don't want to seem too wolfish,” Keith replies, biting Shiro’s bottom lip and Shiro laughs into it.

He leans down to press himself in a solid line against Shiro, and Shiro responds with enthusiasm into the kiss. Keith feels the eagerness build up between them, and starts to sit up so that he can get a proper look at Shiro underneath him. It’s easy for Keith to forget who they are in this moment as he gazes down at Shiro, who is sated and tousled and happy. Shiro runs a hand up Keith’s thigh and settles it on his hip. Keith’s about to shift back, about to lean down and press a kiss to Shiro’s neck from where it invites him, but Shiro speaks before he can do anything.

“When I first saw you,” Shiro starts, and Keith pauses mid-descent. “When I first realized it was you, I felt relief like no other.”

Keith blinks, taken by surprise at the sheer earnestness of the comment. He hovers above Shiro, parts his mouth but he’s unable to respond.

“There’s a lot of things I learned to let go and give up on from my past,” Shiro says, pushing an errant strand of hair behind Keith’s ear. “But you were never one of them.”

He’s truly left speechless at Shiro’s words but Keith saves face by dropping down into a fierce kiss, bumping their noses together with none of the finesse he had before. Shiro bites his lower lip playfully before soothing it with his tongue. It’s saccharine and slow and Keith cannot believe that this is the fortune he’s stumbled upon. For as long as Shiro wants him, he sees no need in going back to the clan that tried to pawn him off to a situation everyone thought he wouldn’t make it out of.

Shiro flips them over and presses Keith into the mattress, slotting between his legs again. Keith’s world narrows down to the man moving with confidence above him, murmuring soft praises as he runs a hand down Keith’s torso.

“Does this mean you're staying?” Shiro asks, and Keith belatedly realizes he never really had given Shiro an answer. He captures Shiro's hand and closes it into a fist, pressing a noble kiss onto the knuckles and peering up at him.

“For as long as you'll have me,” Keith says, reverence in his voice as he adds a “Sire.”

“You finally said it with some respect,” Shiro observes, but he's beaming wide before he pushes his way into another kiss. Keith smiles against it and wraps himself completely around Shiro's body, losing himself quickly as they move between the sheets.

Keith's only felt like he's ever belonged when he's been beside Shiro, and now that they're reunited, he thinks that he may have just found a newer, better purpose. It’s a freak stroke of luck that _this_ is how he survived, but Keith’s not going to question it. And if turning into a demon was the cost of earning this moment, then Keith is more than glad that he has paid his dues.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiro got Keith to pick his least favourite camp member to wash the furs (:
> 
> Wow, thank you for joining me in this extremely gratuitous fic journey! It's been a gr8 2018 and I'd like to thank all y'all who supported this fic and all the other wacky stuff I wrote this year.
> 
> [ tumblr](http://intheendlessbluewine.tumblr.com/post/182228841279/this-is-for-phaltu-as-a-thank-you-for-supplying>%20please%20check%20out%20this%20spectacular%20fanart%20by%20intheendlessbluewine</a>%20for%20this%20fic!!!%20thank%20you%20SO%20much!!!%0A%0ACome%20hang%20out%20with%20me%20on%20<a%20href=) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/tagteamme) or [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/phaltu)!! I hope 2019 brings a lot of joy for all of y'all!!!

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://phaltu.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/tagteamme)!!


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